


Dance With A Stranger

by BlackLyr, orphan_account



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Consensual Underage Sex, F/M, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Pseudo-Incest, Secret Relationship, Sexual Content, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 09:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 50
Words: 115,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6699298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackLyr/pseuds/BlackLyr, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Claire struggles to fit into the world of the Petrelli, she and Peter find out what it means to be family, and still long for the forbidden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lies By Omission

**Author's Note:**

> AU from 1x18 Parasite, this fic depicts facts and storylines that are not considered part of the current Heroes canon. 
> 
> Originally posted on FF.net between 2007-2011, written under a penname that itself was a writing collaboration. My writing partner has long since retired from fandom, but while we didn't feel comfortable leaving it on FF.net, we didn't want it to disappear either given its original popularity. It was my partner that was the face of our writing persona and we are not in regular contact, so please keep that in mind when it comes to messaging and comments.

Peter Petrelli had always been a law-abiding, God-fearing man. The latter was instilled as a result of coming from generations of traditional Italian Catholics; his father, Arthur, not having been a very devout man but one particularly concerned with keeping up appearances.

Consequently, he spent twenty-one years of Sundays stifled in tie and suit jacket, self-conscious and uncomfortable upon the wooden pews listening to Father Mariano's weekly, recycled sermons. He was baptized in that church, had his First Eucharist and Confirmation there, watched Monty and Simon's christenings.

But after twenty-one years, he let his obligations no longer rule his life, and he stopped attending Masses. A final blow-out with Arthur and then Nathan over his lack of career incentive, and then it was good-bye to New York; the next three years spend traveling wherever his whim and fancy took him.

Attending nursing school after doubting a man his age could survive medical school, taking his father's death onto his conscience with nothing but lingering regret and resentment, having to deal with Nathan stepping into their patriarch's shoes and trying to enforce his will over little brother's life.

Through it all, Peter stuck to the moral codes and obedience to Scripture and law ingrained in him since childhood. At least he did…until now…and now was the entrance of one blonde-haired, doe-eyed underage cheerleader into his life.

If he did not already feel quite so much a pedophilic pervert already for his less-than-innocent interest in his reason for being back in Odessa, Texas in the first place, he would have to add stalker to his résumé for his current preoccupation.

He'd tracked her for two days, memorizing her daily routine to find the best time and place to approach her unhindered by the small-town surrounding them. Claire had a habit of passing through a particular path in a more isolated part of town, intent on her destination being a local diner scene.

Or it would have been, if invisible hands wouldn't have suddenly grabbed her from behind and pulled her out of sight into a back alleyway. Materializing before her and reassuringly whispering her name to stop her struggling, Peter watched her apprehensively, smiling awkwardly at their first meeting since that dreaded Homecoming night- not counting the visit to his holding cell, when she'd looked at him in a way that should have had him arrested in any state.

"Peter…"

Claire Bennet stood before him, understandingly stunned at his sudden reappearance into her life. He hesitated for a moment, uncertain how to explain himself and vaguely disappointed she was not more enthusiastic to see him again; something he more than felt in large amounts of inappropriate glee. And then she smiled, and his world shifted all over again.

Suddenly she smiled…she smiled and threw her arms around him, leaving him both boyishly happy and bemusedly stunned as he returned her embrace with trembling arms, hating himself for how much he loved the feel of her soft body pressing to his, the scent of vanilla-honey shampoo filling his nostrils.

"Peter, you have no idea how good it is to see you!"

He swallowed hard at those large, earnest eyes staring up at him and he smiled weakly. "Oh, I think I have some idea."

She smiled at him again and he stared dazedly. Yep, he was going straight to hell…no ands, ifs or buts about it.

+++

He awakened in the night, trembling, broken out in a cold sweat, lost in the throes of his own chaotic consciousness, the aftereffects of the nightmare still lingering…no manifestation of his troubled senses but rather a monstrous recollection destined to forever haunt him, mind and soul, twisting and clawing its way into the darkest reaches of his heart, his very perception of life around him.

"Hey."

Peter's head shot up from his pillow, his eyes adjusting in the darkness of the motel room to meet the concerned gaze of the other bed's occupant. Moonlight filtered in through the room's sole window just behind her, illuminating golden waves of hair falling around her shoulders, giving her an ethereal look in the pallid luminescence.

Her skin seemed to glow, milky white flesh his fingers itched to touch, her long legs- exposed as the borrowed t-shirt she wore barely came down to her thighs- swung out from under the comforter as she sat up to face him.

"Peter? Are you okay?"

He nodded dumbly, averting his eyes from her as his traitorous mind grappled both with the lingering traces of his nightmare and the illicit attraction he harbored for his temporary roommate.

With the unreliability of his control, the borrowed power from Hiro was out of the question, as well as the money borrowed from Nathan not being enough to cover two return plane tickets, leaving the Greyhound route their only option. With the next bus not leaving until morning, he and Claire had settled into a hotel room in the next town over from Odessa to wait out their time.

Claire had been more than eager to join him, spilling an extraordinary story of erased memories and traitorous fathers, feelings of betrayal and isolation among the same people who were supposed to protect her, leaving him to nearly forget his reason for coming to get her in the first place.

He supposed, if his mind was a bit more rational and not so wired to be white knight to his damsel in distress, he would have hesitated at the implications of aiding and abetting a teenage runaway- or, considering it was his insistence that had her leaving in the first place, certain levels of kidnapping a minor.

But any trace of those trails of thought immediately dissipated as slender arms suddenly slipped around him, the bed creaking under the addition of her weight as she sat beside him. "You're not okay…please don't lie, Peter," she whispered into his ear, the brush of her breath against his skin sending a sensual shiver down his spine.

"Claire," he grunted out throatily, fighting to keep himself unresponsive to her embrace, "Go back to bed."

She eyed him closely, studying him, blue eyes imploring and defiant as they locked with his, her head shaking to refuse him. "No. I heard you talking in your sleep…your nightmare. Talk to me. Don't pretend."

"Claire," and his voice dropped an octave, the dark quality to it sending inexplicable shivers through her as he repeated his command with more authority, "Go back to bed."

The pupils of his eyes were dilated, the warm brown of them more an opaque jet-black in the dark of the room, and the effect of them was mesmerizing. She swallowed hard, the hands previously trying to comfort him fisting in the material of his wife-beater, noting that the thin cotton was damp with a cold sweat.

"No," and she watched him scowl with her refusal, the severity of his expression having the resolution of her resolve wavering, not wanting to push him. But then she felt the muscles beneath her fingers quiver with tension and she remembered the mutters and the thrashing that had woken her in the first place. "Why won't you talk to me? What's so awful that you want me to go away so badly?"

"You need to go to bed. Now. If not…"

"If not…" she prompted, her breath hitching almost painfully as she met his eyes again, dark and glittering with something she couldn't quite read.

"If not…I'm going to do something we can't take back."

His gaze fell from her eyes to her lips and he was suddenly leaning forward, so close that his eyes were all that filled her vision, black and full with what she recognized now as the same feeling coiling in her belly. It was the same feeling that heated in her blood with his proximity, that had her knees feeling weak and her mind blank of anything but him every time he was near.

Desire, hot and potent, burned between them…almost a palpable entity in its intensity.

Claire licked her lips, shifting closer. "What if I don't want to take it back?"

Peter seemed to tremble against her, closing his eyes. "Then," he said simply, his voice husky and pained, "We're both done for."

She watched him, her stomach a jumble of nerves and anticipation as she glanced at him demurely through the fan of thick lashes, biting her lip in a gesture that earned a low, throaty whisper of "God, Claire," from him just before he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her into his lap and crushed his mouth to hers.

His lips moved over hers hungrily, his tongue demanding entrance she gladly granted, and dear God, she was drowning with no hopes of surfacing any time soon. His hands splayed across her back, pushing her flush against him as he kissed her ever the more urgently.

An intense heat spiraled in her blood, settling in her abdomen and humming through her head, fuelled on as she felt him harden through the thin fabric of his boxers, instinctually rolling her hips against his arousal. He groaned low in his throat, plundering her mouth ever more insistently as he kissed her again, his weight pressed her back to the bed.

She mewled with pleasure as the unexpected spike of ecstasy that shot through her as he rocked into her, and she pushed against him, eager for more of the feeling. Aching to feel more, he shucked up the t-shirt to her hips, sliding his hands up the creamy skin of her legs and thighs. He tore his mouth from hers, trailing heated kisses down her neck, and she squirmed against him, made soft sounds of pleasure that left him feeling dizzy and utterly empowered as she begged him softly for more, something more…anything more.

"Peter…please…" She lifted her hips to his once more, rubbing wantonly against him while at the same time flushing red as he obeyed her silent requests, sliding down her underwear, urging her to lift her arms so he could pull the t-shirt over her head. Numbly, she lay back against the sheets, completely bare to him, and his eyes roved over her, feasting on warm, sun-kissed flesh and soft curves his imagination couldn't have even began to imagine.

He chuckled softly at the virgin uncertainty in her eyes, leaning his head down to nuzzle her neck as he whispered how beautiful she was. Her smile was infectious, Peter finding himself grinning rather boyishly despite the dark reminder her innocence inspired in his mind. That it was a child, an innocent, lying beneath him, subject to his touch and his lusts.

"Claire, listen…there's something I have to tell you…"

She shook her head, guiding his lips back to hers to cut off his line of speech. "Shh," catching his lower lip between her teeth, earning a low growl from him as he nipped at her in return, placating the sore spot with a deep, earnest kiss, "Whatever it is, it can wait."

He placed a kiss just below her ear, obediently rearing upward to allow her to pull his wife-beater over his head as she reminded him quietly she was the only one naked, and by the time his boxer shorts joined the small pile of clothing on the floor, the naked length of his body covering hers like a human blanket, he was too far gone to care about anything but her.

+++

He lay there silently in the dark for hours after she had fallen into slumber, just listening to the sound of her breathing and reveling in the warm body spooned against his side. Guilt and disgust warred with sated euphoria in his mind, and he found it to be a fruitless battle. He couldn't hate himself for this anymore than he could have hated the act between them…something he would have given his life to savor just once before he died.

A low, barely audible beeping sound reached his ears and he rolled his eyes, reaching a hand down to feel around on the floor for his pants. Finally, he snagged a pair of dark jeans and fished them up to him, digging out a slim cell phone from the pocket. He squinted in the darkness, trying to make out the numbers on the tiny screen. Recognition filling him, he switched it off, attempting to sit up and cursing under his breath as his leg collided with the bedside table. Glaring at the offending object, he rubbed the sore spot, continuing his search for his clothing scattered across the carpet.

He pulled on his shorts, fingers redialing the familiar number into the phone even as he noiselessly padded across the carpet and slipped through the door, the chill outside raising goosebumps against his exposed skin as he stepped out into the night air. He raised the phone to his ear, answering rapid-fire inquiries from the caller the moment he picked up.

"Calm down, Nathan. She's safe…we both are," a pause, and then a sigh, "I'm more than capable of protecting her, Nathan, I swear. We'll be there in a few days, promise. We're catching a bus in the morning, straight for New York."

It was suddenly hard to breath, and the sick twisting in his gut, Peter knew, had nothing to do with the pizza they had for dinner. It had everything to do with the voice speaking in his ear, his brother's gruff and authoritative masculinity, and the voice ringing through his head, soft and feminine, whimpering his name and calling out to him in pleasure.

He raked a hand through his hair, falling heavily back against the hotel room door, ignoring the sting of cold metal against his naked back. "I promise, Nathan…I'll get your daughter home safe."


	2. Shattered Reflections

"Peter?"

The sleepy voice broke through his reflections, causing him to turn toward the source of the noise, the sleepy-eyed silhouette lying in the bed he'd vacated an hour before. "Peter, are you alright?"

Peter nodded, managing a soft smile as he took in the sight of her. She was small and slight beneath the pool of bedsheets, a deceptive impression with the womanly curves vaguely outlined beneath the thin material his hands itched to feel again- her face angelic to his sight, young and beautiful, wide-eyed sea-blue gaze, golden curls tumbling around her bare shoulders.

The petals of her mouth curved into a smile, the look in her eyes so close to pure adoration, and his heart melted, surrendering to the urge to go to her once more. Claire watched him cross the room with long, fluid strides, the length of him moving with a perfected, feline grace.

He was a beautiful man, this first lover of hers, wiry and finely-sculpted, lean muscles rippling beneath Italian olive skin. His was a swarthy, handsome face, rugged with a definitive boyish quality. The dark attractiveness of him was as appealing to her senses as the gentle quality to his eyes, his smile as he climbed back into the bed, stretching out beside her as he grazed his knuckles against her cheek, responding to her silent inquiries with a nearly inaudible whisper of her name, "Claire…"

"Peter?"

"Hmm?" he murmured against the pillow he lay back against, extending an arm to pull her closer to him, Claire finding it strangely perfect the way she fit perfectly against him as she cuddled into his side.

"Since you were already up…" she trailed off slightly, watching Peter's eyes lock on her fingers, currently trailing coyly up his chest, "You're probably not all that tired, right?"

In response, Peter's arm tightened around her, levering her body over his as he pulled her atop of him, beautiful brown eyes darkening as he grinned at her. "For you? Never."

His kiss was soft, just the light brush of his lips gliding over hers, and then she could taste him, the incredible heat of him as he cupped her jaw, exploring her mouth with deep, heated kisses that left her shivering and aching for more.

She shifted against him, straddling him and his hands shot to her hips as he realized her intentions, shaking his head "no". "Don't rush. I want to remember every minute of this…"

He punctuated each word with a kiss against her skin, and he found her breast, his mouth closing over one erect nipple while his hand molded to the other, listening to her soft mewls of pleasure as the callous fingertips of his opposite hand explored the contours and curves of her body. Claire felt him harden against her hip, and then he was sliding his mouth downward, their angle awkward as he reared up to get to her, Claire still straddling him, but neither of them cared.

He sucked at her hipbone, his tongue circling her navel, and Claire arching against him pushed him back at their odd angle, Peter settling himself back as he gripped her hips, resisting the urge to just thrust forward and impale himself inside her.

He wanted to taste her, smell her, all the time…imprint himself into her skin; feel her become a part of him. It was a frightening, yet exhilarating, thought, and one he couldn't completely shake.

And then he was sliding into her, slowly filling her, and her head dropped back, her hands clutching at his shoulders for balance. "Oh God, Peter…" his hips jerked upward, and she cried out, rocking against him in response.

It was over sooner than he would have wanted, the ache of needed release eventually trumping the urge to stay forever inside of her, feel her tighten and shake around him, hearing her breathless moans in his ear.

Their bodies were already so worked up with each other, a few stunted thrusts, her hips grinding into his, determined to make them one, and he lost it. Slipping his fingers inside her, she soon joined him over the edge and her cry of his name was like the song of angels greeting in the dawn.

And that dawn was something rapidly approaching, something neither of them could prevent from happening- both of them wanting the night to go on forever for different reasons, Claire for want not to relinquish the embrace of the man beside her after everything just discovered that night, Peter for not wanting to shatter the illusion he'd built up so cruelly for them both the moral world was soon to crumble.

Peter finally fell into slumber a couple of hours before the sunrise, and this time, it was Claire's turn to watch him as he slept. It was the first time she'd seen him appear so peaceful, his defenses completely dropped.

The only other time she had come close to seeing him like this had been that day in the jail cell, when her so-called father had been eager to get her out of her savior's presence, and she stopped in the doorway, making no qualms to hiding her admiration.

She called him her hero and he'd looked utterly flummoxed, like no one before in his life had ever taken the time to truly appreciate the amazing man he was proving himself to be the more time she spent in his presence. And then he grinned, and she could have sworn she had never seen a more sincere smile before or since.

She reached out, her fingers softly brushing against the peaceful features of his face, and her smile was bittersweet as she whispered to him, "We'll take care of each other, won't we, Peter? I won't lose you like everyone else, right?"

With Peter deep in his dreams, her only answer was the silence of the night.

+++

He held her hand through each taxi ride, each drop-off and pick-up through the airport, the plane ride…she did not mind the handhold, welcomed it in all actuality. When they'd awoken that morning, he had seemed distant, almost detached, and she'd been scared he'd changed his mind about something.

And then…he reached out and squeezed her hand, pressed a kiss to her temple and told her to take her time getting ready if she wanted; they were in no hurry.

The only time he seemed there with her was the instance he joined her in the shower, and he'd touched, tasted, kissed and coddled…more than made up for that strange look in his eyes whenever he looked at her that day.

His eyes were a thousand miles away, so she took her comfort from the hand in hers, idly taking the time to study the patterns of veins pulsing beneath his skin, the small scars at the edges of his thumbs. She remembered the warmth of those same hands as they touched her, the slide of his calloused fingers against her naked skin, and her face would flame with the bawdy memories. At times, Peter would smile at her as if catching the trail of her thoughts, and he'd lean in, whispering something in her ear that brought not only more heat to her face, but the twisted tendrils of desire coiling in her lower belly.

It was too good to last. The touches, the looks…even the smiles, they came less and less until all she could rely on was his stony-faced expression and the dead-tight grip of his hand clutching hers; the closer they came to New York, the less he was her lover, the more he was Peter the hero, distant and unattainable.

They spent the next night in each other's company sleeping on the Greyhound, and while her first morning with him brought her warm arms around her and the naked body of her first stretched out beside her, the second brought a sore neck and a packaged muffin he'd picked up at the last bus-stop shoved into her hands.

New York City was amazing, intimidating in its majesty and the stark reality of its colorful atmosphere. Peter abandoned her hand as soon as they stepped out onto the depot, replacing it with a more possessive gesture- slipping his arm around her waist, determinedly keeping her at his side as he guided her through the ever-expanding crowds.

They took a cab to Upper Manhattan, something that had Claire's eyebrows rising rather incredulously as they approached a large, sprawling house Peter vaguely mentioned as belonging to the family Petrelli. She had to admit, when she had pictured a messy bachelor's pad, a small apartment of a sort, nothing as extravagant as the sight presented before them.

He moved his hand as they started up the long, narrow driveway leading to the house's main grounds, placing it at the small of her back, subtly pushing her forward as her bewilderment only grew. She was idly wondering if a house that large had some kind of hired help- inwardly giggling at the thought of a tall, bald, solemn butler by the name of Jeeves- when he rang the doorbell, but before she could express her confusion to why he would do such a thing at his own home, the door swung open.

It was everything she had inside her to choke out the words. "Nathan!!...D-dad!!"

Her father. Her biological father. The man Meredith called Nathan. Nathan. Nathan…Petrelli.

She watched the stunned expression on her father's face warm, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as his gruff composure fell; as she thought the situation could not get any more bizarre, he reached out and pulled her into a heartfelt embrace.

She remained limp in Nathan's arm, turned her head against the chest of the man clutching her so desperately to him, but all that filled her mind was Peter's dark, guilty eyes.

 


	3. Thoughtless

There was no one that dared to question him when he begged off the family reunion early, no one around to comment as Peter Petrelli got himself very, very rip-roaringly drunk that night.

He woke the next morning missing her- the feel of her, the sound of her breath as she slept beside him, the smell of her, the whisper of her skin against his- and he wasn't sure if it was hangover nausea or self-hatred that had him retching over the toilet bowl.

He splashed cold water over his face, taking in the sight of his gaunt, pale face staring back at him. The reflection was mocking…seemed to be laughing at him…

He barely felt the pain as he slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering the glass, feeling the sharp edges rip and tear as his skin, the sticky warmth of his own blood between his fingers.

A passing thought of her in his head, and suddenly the skin was re-knitting itself, healing. He numbly stared ahead as he washed off the blood and shards of glass from his palm, the rushing sound of the running water nearly working to drown out the cacophony of sobs spilling from his throat.

+++

For two weeks, she could not bear to look at him. For four weeks, she said not a word in his presence. For six weeks, she spared him nothing more than the cordial greeting expected of her when they crossed paths.

Nathan, knowing how his sons had warmed to Peter from birth and onward, was puzzled by the distance Claire exhibited toward Peter. When he asked Peter about it, the younger Petrelli gave his brother the half-baked truth, that Claire was angry with him for not telling her the real reason he was bringing her to New York- that he hadn't said a word about Nathan and their relation beforehand.

Nathan chided him about handling the situation callously- hypocritical, Peter would have thought, if it wasn't for the shame rolling through him- and reassured him Claire would come around in time. Peter wasn't so sure.

Heidi called him one afternoon, asking after his health. She passed along greeting from his nephews, reprimands from Angela for not coming around more often for family dinners, concerns of her own for her newly acquired step-daughter. That she'd heard the girl crying in her bedroom on more than one night, and hoping to evoke her brother-in-law's legendary empathy, voiced these occurrences to him.

Lying to his brother's wife left a bad taste in his mouth afterward, as he spouted off garbled mutterings about homesickness being natural, gave an excuse of having to get to work, and hung up the phone.

It was instances like this that he ever dared to step foot again in the Petrelli home- invisible, of course- if only to catch a glimpse of Claire in the hall, or raid Nathan's liquor cabinet. He'd given Nathan back his daughter, and lost his heart in the process. A bottle of bourbon or whiskey here and there was the least big brother owed him.

+++

Eight weeks before he found himself blackmailed into attending a family dinner, and it was inevitable their paths crossed again. Somewhere along the line, he ended up spending the night in his old room, but with Claire right down the hall, sleep was far-off and imaginary.

Somehow, as he opted to share his insomnia with the night, relocating himself to the balcony overlooking his mother's gardens, he should not have been surprised to feel her presence behind him.

"I know…on some level, I should be disgusted by this whole thing, completely freaked out…"

"You should be," he countered back, staring unblinkingly into the darkness of the night surrounding them, "You should hate me."

"Do you want me to?"

"…hate me…? Never. I hate myself enough for the both of us."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Hate yourself. I don't."

"That's where you went wrong. Hate me, Claire…want me gone and out of your life. Want me dead and buried."

"…I can't…"

"…why not…?"

 _Because I love you_. "You're family. You can't hate your family."

"Family…" he dully echoed, wincing as the longing in his tone betrayed him. Claire either did not notice or chose to ignore it, sidling up beside him to lean against the railing with him, just a few agonizing inches away.

"I thought it would be different this time, Peter…that maybe this time when I found my family, I could trust them. They wouldn't betray me like my dad did," she choked out a laugh, only bitterness to be heard, "But you…I didn't even know who you were before you completely screwed me over…"

He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off. "Just listen for a bit, okay? Don't say anything…just…listen… I'll probably never have the chance to talk like this again."

"You hurt me, Peter. It hurts, still…so badly…knowing you couldn't even tell me. And it's wrong, so wrong…I think even if you'd told me, what happened would have still happened. What's really twisted…I don't think you were out just to fuck your niece, Peter…you were making love to me…"

Her eyes locked with his, "I don't hurt because you lied, Peter…I hurt because you gave me a taste of something I can never have. I've never felt so loved in my life…and I'm not supposed to feel it."

He watched her, looking at her with those dark, imploring eyes. She saw the raw intensity there that had her heart racing with a guilty longing, the same want she saw the night she gave Peter her virginity, the same guilt he tried to hide the next day. Why hadn't she seen it before?

"God…Claire…I…" _I need you. I want you. I've wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you. I want to kill myself for hurting you. I want to live for another chance to touch you._

"Dad…Nathan…he's worried about you, Peter…he knows you're hurting, but he doesn't know how to fix it." She stepped tentatively closer, lightly placing a hand against his cheek. He leaned into the touch, reveling in soft fingertips tracing along his jaw-line, the warmth slowly filtering into the soft blue of her eyes. Beautiful…so beautiful and so beyond his reach.

"What do you want, Peter? What do you need so I know you're not dying inside? Your eyes…they're too haunted. You're going to kill yourself with this guilt…"

 _You. I just want you._ "What I want…" he breathed softly, smiling wanly despite himself, "If I could give what I want…I'd be on my knees for you, begging you to forgive me…to look at me one more time without remembering what I did to you."

"I forgave you a long time ago, Peter. But I can't forget."

Neither of them ever would.

She turned to leave, and the sound of his voice stopped her in place just as she almost stepped out of his proximity. "You have a beautiful smile, Claire. I'm sorry I took it from you."

"…you'll see it again…just give me time…" came her reply, and as she stepped away, her fingertip lightly grazed against his.

In Peter, it was a forbidden thrill of energy in his body, and for Claire, it was the sinful slide of his slightest touch that betrayed her want for more. More, she was sure, than she could ever allow him again.

 


	4. Promise Me

"That's it, I can't stand it!"

Startled out of his reflections, Peter's head shot up from the novel he was reading at Claire's exclamation, as she flopped down on the couch beside him, fuming.

He lowered the book, regarding her with concern. "Claire? What's wrong?"

"Your mother. She's talking about Paris again. Now she's thinking about boarding school!"

Peter frowned, "Claire, calm down. Nathan already talked to her. No one's sending you anywhere."

"Not if Angela has anything to do with it. She wants me gone and out."

"Claire. You're not leaving. I swear."

"Promise?"

"Absolutely. It's just the election…it's stressing everybody out. We'll lie low for a while until Nathan can sort things out, but it doesn't mean you belong here any less. Okay? "

She nodded, and sighed, "It's just frustrating."

"I know. But that's just my mom. She's worried about you and Nathan both, in her own way."

"Her way sucks."

Peter smiled, "I know. Trust me, I've had twenty-six years to get used to it, and it doesn't get any better."

"Thank you," she gave him a small smile, one that momentarily dazzled him as he realized it was the first time in weeks he had been parry to one of Claire's smiles.

"Any time."

Claire nodded, settling more comfortably into her place beside him, drawing her knees up to her chest, resting her chin against a kneecap. Peter gave her another smile before turning his attention back to his book. She watched him, contemplative, for a few moments of peaceful silence before Peter, sensing the weight of her eyes on him, glancing back up at her, his eyebrows arching in question.

"Is there something else?"

"…I was wondering something…"

"Shoot."

"Why did you come for me anyway? Nathan said he's the one that asked you to come and get me, but if I'm such a scandal risk, why not wait to come to Odessa? It seems a lot less risky."

"He was worried about you. We all were. He figured it would be better to have you here with everything that's going on."

"About that…"

"Hmm?"

"I hear snippets here and there. About what's supposed to happen…do you really think…this explosion…you're the one who's supposed to explode?"

He sighed, placing his book onto the coffee table before them as his attention was now completely and undividedly hers. He placed his hand over hers, calloused palm enveloping hers in its strength. "Claire…" unable to fully form the words, he nodded.

"…then, I have a confession to make…"

"…what…?"

"I shouldn't have eavesdropped, I'm sorry, but…I didn't just hear bits and pieces. I heard you on the phone with Nathan and Dr. Suresh…going over the details of your dream. Peter…" and her voice dropped to near-whisper, her eyes looking pleadingly up into his own, "I wouldn't run from you. Never."

"You need to. If it comes now to it, you need to stay away from me."

"I can't."

"Promise me." His hand gripped hers even tighter, his voice fervent as he bent his head. "Promise me, please."

She reached up even as he came closer, placing her free hand against his chin, guiding his mouth down to hers. The kiss was soft, chaste, just a light press of her lips against hers, but still it spoke of everything they could not bring themselves to say.

"I promise," she breathed against his lips, and though he felt her fingers cross between their joined hands, he could not bring himself to say a word.

"You can't die on me," she told him solemnly, "I won't let you…" and she kissing him again, lingeringly, longingly, before releasing him rather abruptly and gently, but firmly, shoving him away, fleeing from the room.

Peter sank back into the couch, his eyes closing with pained resignation, the burn of her kiss still tangible against his lips.

+++

In the end, she broke her promise, though deep down, he always knew she would.

He felt that heat, that blinding heat, coursing through his very veins, saw the glow against his own skin. And no matter how Nathan tried to pull her away, no matter how Peter himself demanded she leave, she refused each time. She clung to him, and he watched the building radiation burn her skin, only to heal over a few moments later.

She laid her small hands against the bare flesh of his chest, exposed by his open shirt, just above his thundering heartbeat. And he watched blue eyes fill with tears, and despite himself, all he found he wanted was the chance to embrace her one more time, but he did not dare.

His body emanated enough light to blind them both, but still Claire held on resolutely to him, burying her face in his chest so he could not see as her skin cracked and peeled in the radiation.

She would never forget the moment she felt the sudden, forward thrust of Peter's body against hers, the startling dead weight of his body, and then the thin trickle of blood that dripped onto her shoulder.

The cold replacing the intensity of his previously radiating heat; the way his eyes fluttered and clouded over; his low, choked gasp of, "Claire…"

Her wide, frightened eyes meeting those of Peter's attacker over the dark-clothed body burdening down on her, desperately clutching him to her, watching the Japanese man's shaking hands drop from the hilt of the sword protruding from the back of her friend…her uncle…her lover's skull.

"Peter…" she meant to scream, to cry out, but she could only whimper out his name as she watched him die for the second time.

Dimly, she heard the man's garbled apologies, in both English and Japanese, saying it had to be done, for the good of them all. She could not bring herself to listen, the heaviness of him leaving her no choice but to lower him to the ground, careful not to dig the blade deeper into the vulnerability of his cranium.

She vaguely felt the presence of the others- those like her and Peter and Nathan- gathering around them, but she paid them no mind. She laid her hands against his chest, missing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of breathing.

Claire brushed back his hair, not caring about the bio-father standing two feet away as she bent down and chastely brushed her lips against his cheek, his skin still achingly warm. She briefly closed her eyes, took in a deep breath to steady herself before she wrapped her hands around the hilt of the sword and dislodged it from its place in Peter's head.

He gasped for breath, his body rearing upward as he coughed violently, eyes taking focus, warming to their beautiful golden-brown. He blinked several times, laying those beautiful eyes on her. "Claire…"

"I couldn't keep my promise…" was all she could seem to say.

And he smiled, reaching upward to lightly touch his fingers to her cheek. "I'm glad you didn't."

 


	5. Nocturnal Occupations

They hadn't meant for it to happen.

 

Three days since they had averted disaster and death, two days since they were both cloistered into the family home, one day since she had seen him between frantic family members and meaningless doctor visits. She was only vaguely conscious of all of this as she quietly ascended the stairs, dimly aware of the late the late hour presented in the silence and darkness enveloping the house. Her mind was centered on one thing, the feel of Peter's limp and dead body in her arms, the remembrance of feeling his breath leave and his heart stop beating beneath her hands, the memory of his frightened and pained eyes as they lost their spark of life.

 

The need to see him alive, whole, and recovering pulsed through her so intensely it blinded her to everything else around her, only the intensity of her focus making her capable of staying on her feet as she opened the door, stepping into the dimly lit bedroom.

 

He was lying on the bed as she entered, soundlessly closing the door behind her. He was sprawled out across the bed, curled up into a crescent-shape beneath the sheets, and he seemed all right at first sight. As she stepped closer, she was able to make out the steady rise and fall of his chest, his skin pale but not the ghost-white that haunted her memory.

 

He opened his eyes as she drew closer, his dark eyes focusing on her as he smiled, "Claire."

 

And that was it, a simple smile, a whisper of her name, but it was enough to reassure. The harsh bite of relief swept over her, bombarding her, and strangely guilting her for her fears.

 

But as she crawled into the bed beside him, immediately wrapped in his embrace, felt him alive and breathing as he held her in his arms, she thanked the heavens above and whatever god would listen for that simple reassurance.

 

+++

 

They thought that first night was a fluke, a one-time thing, a need for mutual comfort that would never happened again.

 

They soon found themselves to be wrong.

 

+++

 

He watched her as she slept, as silently as the quiet night around them, as gentle a presence beside her as he had ever maintained. She was beautiful, and she was peaceful in her slumber, and he enjoyed watching the transition, to see her pretty face lose its shadowing worry, the constant overcastting fear she couldn't fully dismiss.

 

She looked most like a child when she slept, and she was the most delicate he had ever seen her, fragile and small as she curled in around herself, making herself as small as possible, seeking to protect herself even against the phantoms of the dreamscape.

 

She would whimper softly in her sleep, her face straining with new stress, and he had come to recognize the sounds, her fear and her distress. He reached for her hand, and her fingers curled around his almost painfully, her grip only tightening as her mouth formed a silent scream, and her body violently trembled.

 

"P-Peter."

 

He gently wrapped an arm around her, pulling closer from where he sat at the edge of the bed. She instinctually curled closer around him, her head nestling into his lap, her hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt. "Peter…stay."

 

"I'm here, Claire. I'm not going anywhere."

 

+++

 

That one night turned into two, then three, until an entire week had passed of them sharing a bed, sharing the night together. Sleeping side-by-side, finding comfort and solace in their most vulnerable moments…

 

It was inevitable that their dynamic began to shift once more...

 

+++

 

One week became two, and though Peter was surprised when Claire appeared at his bedroom door one night, hours before their usual time, he realized he really shouldn't be.

 

"Are we going to keep pretending?"

 

He arched his eyebrows, playing for dumb. "Pretending what?"

 

Claire sighed, raking a frustrated hand through the tousled hair that had fallen into her face. "I could go to my room, you could stay here, and we'd both try to sleep. But then we'd end up starting that game of who's going to break first. We'll toss and turn for a couple hours, someone will show up at someone else's door, and we'll finally manage to get some sleep. So, we can stop the act now and actually get a full night's sleep, or stress ourselves out even more."

 

The pregnant silence that followed seemed to last for an eternity, filled with tension and pain and thoughts they had never before dared to speak out loud.

 

She turned away from his gaze, the shadows cast by the darkness effectively hiding the expression in her eyes. "It's your decision, Peter, but I'm tired of games. I'm just tired in general."

 

He swallowed hard, glancing away from her as the wheels in his head began to turn, reflecting, remembering, fighting, thinking, contemplating, and considering all at once.

 

She gazed at him, perched on the side of the bed, his brown eyes distant and unfocused as his thoughts raced. He wore nothing more than a pair of gray pajama bottoms, bare-chested and barefoot. His body was lean and finely boned to the point of seeming delicate, but she was fully aware of the incredible strength lying dormant in the powerful muscles beneath his deceptive frame. She studied him, letting her eyes linger over each feature and perfection of him, committing to memory this side of the man she had come to care so much about.

 

Most especially the warm, smooth lips, with that endearing crook she so loved, currently creased down into a severe frown.

 

Peter cupped her face in his hands, drawing her closer, brushing his lips over hers in the gentlest of kisses. The contact felt so fragile to him, as if a single wrong movement or a harsher puff of breath would shatter its existence forever.

 

But she accepted his kiss, closing her eyes at the soft contact and touched her hand to his face in turn. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, lightly exhaling. "This…it's wrong, but…"

 

"I know," she whispered, reaching up to rest her hand over his.

 

He was weak…weak and sick and horrible, but he couldn't help himself. And the woman beside him (child, his mind screamed at him, sixteen; just a child) didn't seem to object. But he mentally shook his head, remembering the maturity, the haunted look in her eyes that spoke of someone years older, and he pushed the nagging little voice away.

 

She kissed him again, a soft peck to his lips, and drew away. They never spoke of the kiss, or anything they would have or could have admitted in the aftermath.

 

Finally, he looked at her, and he gave her a crooked smile, though his eyes were serious. He lifted the sheets in invitation and she needed no other incentive.

 

+++

 

 _What was this for them_ , he wondered? _What did this mean_ , she thought to herself in the quiet of the night? What was it that kept them coming back to each other, again and again?

 

It was nothing, it was everything, and it was all things in between.

 


	6. Fixed In Limbo

Since hitting adulthood, time passing never quite had the same effect on Peter Petrelli as it did during his childhood; it was something normal, barely noticed as the years crept up on him and aged him into the full-grown man he was, four years shy of thirty-year maturity.

 

But something about Claire’s presence in his life seemed to change that; suddenly, time became something he was utterly aware of, its passing and its paradoxes, aware of days and weeks that served as new milestones in his existence.

 

Time passed by him in parts and pieces, snapshots he stored away into his memory; moments he spent with Claire and moments he spend without her, differentiated by the single, solitary emotion that seemed to define each good moment.

 

Adoration. Affection. Euphoria. Infatuation. He could label it any way he wanted to, but denial was an impossibility; no matter what. Whenever Claire graced him with a simple smile, he knew a truth of all truths, no matter how wrong it should have been, he just couldn’t stop himself.

 

He had fallen, hard and fast, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 

+++

 

They were idly lying on his bed, Peter's arm draped around her stomach as Claire rested her head on his chest, fingers drawing nonsensical patterns against his naked skin. He deeply inhaled at the contact, the muscles of his bare chest contracting and then relaxing beneath her touch.

 

"Penny for your thoughts?" she murmured softly, slowly running her fingers up his arm. The fine hair dotting his forearms was soft beneath his fingers, smoothing out when she traced over the definitions of his bicep. The contrasts of his body had always fascinated her; so blatantly, powerfully male, but capable of being so gentle with her. She gently pressed a kiss to his shoulder, waiting for his answer.

 

He blinked sleepily, "Mmm, I don't know if they're worth that much."

 

She tilted her head up to look at him. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

 

He swallowed against the harsh lump rising in his throat. She noticed his hesitation and propped herself up on an elbow to see him more clearly. "What is it, Peter?"

 

"Claire…" he sharply inhaled, exhaling again in a harsh rush of air. "I don't want to lose you."

 

She gave him questioning look, reaching over to stroke his face. "What brought this on? Is it what we talked about earlier?"

 

They had been sharing a bed for nearly every night in the two months since Kirby Plaza. Earlier that evening, Claire had made the unexpected announcement that she now felt comfortable attempting to sleep away from him. This was to be the one last night she wanted to spend curled up at his side.

 

"…I'm just…" He shrugged, unable to convey the full feelings.

 

For a long moment, Claire didn't speak, and the more the silence extended between them, the more Peter's stomach knotted with continued insecurities. And then she was wrapping her arms around his neck, guiding him to lay with her, Claire sinking back onto the mattress as she pulled him atop of her. She ran one hand through his hair, keeping the other around his neck to tenderly stroke the dip between his shoulder-blades. "Talk to me."

 

With a deep sigh, Peter relaxed against her body. "I don't want to be selfish, sweetheart, but I don't want to let this go. I like being close to you, and I'm not just talking in the literal, physical sense. I know it's not logical, but I feel like I'll lose that after tonight. Like you'll drift away from me."

 

"Peter…I like being close to you, too. It feels good…special. It's closer than we've been since…" A light blush touched her cheeks. "You know…" He did know, and it felt wonderful that they had rediscovered the closeness and the connection without crossing the line back into a sexual relationship.

 

She brought a hand to rest against the back of his neck, brushing her thumb against his hairline in a slow, continuous stroking. "I don't think there's any single word for what we are, Peter, but I don't want to lose what we have either. Not after everything we've been through, or how hard we fought to get back to each other after you saved me in Odessa. I won't let it happen."

 

It was moments like this when he remembered the incredible amount of strength this seemingly frail body chose to hide. All the times he felt so badly compelled to shelter her, protect her, hold her close until absolutely nothing in the world could harm her, he often forgot she harbored a compulsion to do much the same for him.

 

Peter gave her a warm, languid smile, turning into her touch to kiss her palm, "Why are you so good to me, Claire Bennet?"

 

"Because you're my hero. You're the person I trust most in this world. I love you."

 

"I love you, too."  


+++  


“You are _so_ lucky to be an invalid right now!” Claire stated indignantly as she marched purposely into one of the studies at the Petrelli home, catching Peter’s attention and infusing him with a sense of déjà vu as he raised his head from his book to take in the sight of her.

 

And what a sight it was.

 

The dress she wore was a slinky little black number with an open back, showing up smooth expanses of sun-kissed skin, and the neckline plunging just enough to show a hint of cleavage. The swinging skirt settled on her hips and showed off her legs, complete with thin-strapped heels that accented said legs in a dangerously seductive way.

 

All blood left Peter’s brain and rushed southward. No way in hell this siren before him was sixteen.

 

“How the hell did Nathan even let you out of the house looking like that?”

 

She watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard, his lips parting as he looked her over and Claire could practically feel the burn of his eyes on her.

 

Her lips curled into a smile, and Peter read her expression as something similar to the cat that’d caught the canary. “He didn’t have much of a choice. Happy early birthday to me.”

 

“That’s right, next month, right? Seventeen?”

 

“Seventeen.”

 

He watched as she toed off her heels, groaning softly as she stretched out sore muscles. He smiled softly, the expression slowly fading as his brows knitted with thought, his mind reviewing their short conversation since she came into the room.

 

“Wait a second. Did you call me an _invalid_?”

 

She glanced at him wryly. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to catch on to that.”

 

“How am I an invalid?”

 

“Nathan and your mother have barely let you set foot outside this house in the past month. It’s like they think you’re going to break any second. That counts you as pretty incapacitated in my book.”

 

Peter winced, knowing she was right. In the weeks following the near-explosion, his brother and mother had been insistent Peter “take it easy” and give himself time for recuperation.

 

Though said recuperation was useless on a man capable of regeneration, with the full knowledge of how afraid his family had been for him, Peter guiltily gave in too all demands- including those involving him not moving back to his own apartment and not starting back up at work.

 

The main house was crowded, including every member of the family now excluding Angela, who still retained her own penthouse just a few blocks away.

 

The only good thing Peter could think about the microscope he seemed to live under now was that it kept him in close proximity with Claire, easing them both into a comfortable rapport that satisfied them both at least on some level.

 

When it came to each other, they always seemed to be taking what they could get.

 

“That doesn’t mean I need to be taken care of,” Peter answered her, his tone a trite petulant, “It just means they’re overprotective.”

 

“Tell me about it.” Without thinking twice, she perched herself on the edge of the leather armchair he occupied, groaning softly at the ache in her feet and ankles. “I’m going to kill Nathan. Let him feel some of the pain my feet are in.”

 

He cocked an eyebrow, amused, letting her lean against his side, her head resting atop of his, releasing a gentle sigh. “Is that why you said I was lucky?”

 

“Exactly. Lucky you, getting out of the fundraiser because of grand-mama’s restrictions.”

 

“Yeah,” he smiled, thinking her pouting adorable, not to mention amused at the endearment directed toward Angela, something that she purposely to irritate the reserved Petrelli matriarch, “Lucky me.”

 

“Jerk,” and she stuck her tongue at him, earning a low chuckle in reply, “I swear, even my face hurts from having a smile on my face all night. And my feet…god, men are pigs. Guys twice my age stepping all over my feet and trying for a grope.”

 

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “They what?”

 

“Calm down. If I didn’t kick their asses, Nathan would have been next in line. He was watching me like a hawk all night.”

 

He grinned. “Nathan playing protective daddy. I would have paid to see that.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Claire rolled her eyes, “What is it with you Petrelli men and going Neanderthal whenever your women are threatened? Even Simon and Monty get all macho when Heidi takes us all shopping.”

 

He could not help himself, he burst out laughing. She glared at him, but could not help herself from smiling. As the boisterous echoes of his laughter settled down into the rich end of a chuckle, he settled for a lazy grin, reaching up to pull her down to him.

 

She gave a squeak of surprise, but did not protest as he pulled her to sit sideways in his lap, resting her legs across his thighs. Nonchalantly, he balanced his book against her knees, continuing to read as he began to knead the aching soles of her feet.

 

“By the way, I thought you didn’t feel pain?”

 

“I suppose killer heels are an exception.”

 

Claire leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes and focusing on the warm feel of his calloused hands expertly massaging her feet and ankles.

 

Though it was the strangest positions she’d found herself in since arriving in New York, somehow, it felt like one of the most natural things in the world to give in to.

 

+++

 

_A Year Later:_

 

“ _Who is she_?” she could remember asking, picking up a framed picture from one of the boxes they were currently unpacking in Peter’s new apartment, a venture Nathan funded to keep his little brother closer to home.

 

“ _Simone Deveaux_ ,” had been his reply, his voice low and dark somehow, “ _She was the daughter of a patient of mine, an art dealer._ ”

 

Claire had sent him a puzzled glance, “ _What was she to you_?”

 

“ _To me…she was my lover…to her…I was just a puppy dog she could string along_.”

 

Shocked by the bitterness of his voice, she had wanted to reach for him but unable to dare, she traced her fingers along the elegant features of the women portrayed in the photograph.

 

Her smile was genuine and Peter’s radiant, as they stood together with his arm around her shoulders, her body leaning trustfully into his.

 

“ _You loved her._ ” The look in his eyes, the way he touched her.

 

“ _I did. I loved her…but…I don’t know if I was in love. I knew she cared for me, but I don’t know if it went any deeper.”_

 

“ _What happened to her?”_

_“She died. I killed her.”_

An hour later, after an uncomfortably quiet dinner of Chinese takeout- neither of them were a particularly talented cook- she found him standing outside on the balcony. His back was rigid and stiff, the tension unrelenting in the harsh stance of his body.

 

“Peter…?”

 

“Go back inside, Claire. It’s cold out here. You hate the cold.”

 

Touched that even in his obvious diversion to get rid of her, he would remember such a detail about her, she smiled, undeterred. She sighed softly, approaching him with quiet footfalls, self-consciously wrapping her arms around herself, outfitted in a borrowed coat from Peter’s closet.

 

He was right; after all, the January night air had a definitive frigid edge to its chill. Over a year since she came to the city, and she still could not adjust her body temperature.

 

“It was her, wasn’t it? The woman Isaac shot…”

 

“…He was aiming for me…”

 

“Peter…”

 

“Where’d you hear about that?”

 

“Nathan made some sidelong comment. I’m sorry, Peter. It must have been hard.”

She stepped forward a little closer and hugged him from behind, her arms loosely draped around his waist. He took in a sharp hiss of breath at the sudden press of her body against his, but the warmth of her slowly seeped into him. He relaxed, closing his eyes to savor her embrace.

“Claire.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kill her.”

 

He sighed, “On some level, I know it’s not…but even if I didn’t pull the trigger…”

 

“Peter.”

 

He heard the admonishment in her voice and he swallowed hard, squeezing her arms gently. “I know,” he sighed, turning in the circle of her arms to embrace her himself, pressing a chaste kiss to her forehead. “So…you’re really going?”

 

“Yeah. London. It’s not Paris, but I can’t be picky.”

 

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

 

“…all this time we spent fighting to save the world…shouldn’t I have a chance to see the world we were protecting…?”

 

“I suppose you’re right.” He sighed again, leaning his forehead. “I’ll miss you.”

 

“And I you.”

 

His mouth quirked up into a smile, “That sounds very formal. And very final, somehow.”

 

“Mmm…you know how I feel about you, Peter. You really think I’d be capable of making a final goodbye?”

 

“No more than I. I’m not ready to let go of you yet.”

 

“I won’t be leaving until tomorrow night.” She looked at him through the veil of her lashes, her eyes dilated and something utterly provocative about the dark quality of them. She cupped his jaw, brushing a kiss against his mouth. “None of the family’s expecting me back tonight.”

 

“Claire…”

 

She kissed him again. “It’s college, Peter. That’s four years without you. I’m not a child.”

 

She hooked her fingers through his belt-loops, pulling an unresisting Peter along with her as she guided him back into the apartment. There was really only one decision he could make.

 

 


	7. Fighting A Losing Battle

_"I love you."_

_It was the first time either of them had ever spoken the words they both knew to ring true and still Peter found himself frozen above her, staring down at her with wide, panicked eyes. She smiled softly, albeit a little insecurely, as she raised a hand to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down to meet her in a gentle kiss._

_"I love you, Peter."_

_"Are you scared?"_

_His voice was soft and husky, smooth as silk. In the dark, the body leaning over her held a strong and masculine presence that was so very Peter, and simultaneously unlike anything she had ever encountered. His eyes were imploring and dark._

_"Scared…? Of what?"_

_"Feeling like that."_

_"No. It's you."_

_No, she was not scared. She was the safest she had ever been, here with him. Her heart raced within her breast. She could feel him closer than he had ever been before; his presence was all around her, overwhelming her every sense. Just Peter. "Peter…"_

_"…it scares me…" he admitted softly, "…it scares the hell out of me…"_

_She reached out, soothingly running her hands down the contours of his back as they sank back together against the bed. He reached for the button of her jeans, craning his head to seek her lips._

_"Help me not be so scared…"_

_She obeyed, tugging at the hem of his sweater, responding eagerly at his kiss._

_And her thoughts were filled with him and nothing more._

"On a scale of one to ten, how much you miss me?"

"Truthfully?"

"Candor is appreciated," came the wry reply.

Peter paused for dramatic effect, pretending to ponder his response, "Probably somewhere in the negatives."

"Peter!"

Peter grinned at the sound of the indignant female squeal as he leaned back in his chair with his cell phone at his ear, comfortably seated outside a tasteful little café not far from the Columbia campus. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that she was there beside him, and not an entire ocean away.

The weather was perfect, warm and vibrantly sunny in its late April splendor, the setting ideal for the small lunch and long-distance phone call he had initially sought.

Claire would have loved every minute of it.

Even three years later, just the thought of her struck a resounding ache of longing inside him. Thirty-one years old and he was still pining after a woman like a love-sick schoolboy. Not to mention that said woman was his twenty-one year old niece.

_His body was beautiful, olive skin illuminated in the moonlight to seem almost glowing as he leaned over her. Warm skin, smooth and silken as velvet, the cords of hard muscle rippled beneath as he moved._

_His touch was inflaming, taking her breath away again and again as he touched, caressed, and tasted that which was pure and untainted, offered to him and only him._

_The heat he radiated was intoxicating as he coaxed her into another kiss, and his kisses were as sweet as they were passionate. As his body rocked against her, the intimate contract eliciting a soft whimper from her and a low moan from him, he stared down at her through hooded eyes, amber eyes clouded with emotion and passion, and overall, his feeling for her._

_"I love you, Claire. God, Claire, do I love you."_

He listened to her sigh on the other end of the line, exaggeratingly enunciating as she whined out his name, "Peeeettttteerrrr!"

"Hmm?"

She giggled at the dreamy tone to his voice, "Where'd you go, spaceman?"

"Nowhere in particular," an outright lie.

"Well then…I guess that means you don't want to hear how much I miss you?"

"You miss me?" his tone was genuinely surprised and he could practically hear the smile in her voice as she answered him.

"What? Did you not think I would?"

Peter hesitated, his mouth curving into a wan smile, "I wasn't sure. We didn't exactly part on the best terms."

For the most part, their relationship had been a steady pace of unspoken longings and skirting around the issue of lingering feelings constantly causing an underlying tension between them. They talked constantly, emailing and running up expensive phone bills- much to Nathan's annoyance.

Early in Claire's freshman year, Peter had wistfully expressed his original desire to be a doctor when he first entered college in his early twenties, Nathan and their father's goading about his age eventually leading him to settle for a nursing degree. It was Claire's gentle prodding and encouragement that send him back to university- now in his third year of medical school at Columbia. In return, when Claire had taken them all by surprise by declaring a major in journalism, Peter was her biggest support against Nathan and Angela's disapproval.

All in all, they emphasized a platonic, confidante relationship between blood relations, a nonverbal agreement between them that despite Claire being home three or four times a year for vacations, they kept their interactions innocent. They rarely saw each other outside of family gatherings, and even then, never outside a public place.

For a while, it held together. Until the previous Christmas.

When Claire kissed him.

And Peter exploded.

Claire. Mistletoe. Kiss. She'd smiled as they passed through the doorway in the Petrelli main-house on their way to greet the boys responsible for their early morning wake-up call, and seeing the ornament hanging above him, glanced around to see no one and planted a quick, chaste kiss on his mouth.

Chaste being an optional word. Because there was nothing chaste about the way his body heated up, his groin tightening with sudden longing, every molecule of his being screaming for him to reach out and take her for his own, crush his lips to hers and bury himself inside her until they both found their pleasure. It was agonizing, and frightening in its intensity, and Peter reacted stupidly in his pained confusion.

He yelled, got angry over what to outsiders, would have looked like an innocent peck. Claire had been hurt, understandably so, and the resulting rift between them lasted for months.

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat, and whispered to her hoarsely, "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you."

"Oh, Peter."

_He awoke to a strange, languid feeling of complete contentment, comfort, and satisfaction. Blinking eyes heavy with sleep in an attempt to clear his blurry vision, he stretched his lethargic limbs, arching his back in a manner true to any feline. He let out a soft sigh of pleasure. Somehow, living with Claire's infectious youthful enthusiasm to the world around them, he had begun to take the time to appreciate the simple things in life- the sensual feeling of cool, clean sheets against naked skin being one of them._

_He threw back the sheets, rolling his body into a sitting position at the side of the bed. A momentary rustle of the bedclothes, and a pair of slender arms encircled his waist, the foreign warmth of another's body hovering just behind his back._

_He gave in to his instinct, the desire to lean back and feel the pleasure of body-to-body contact. The heat of another body was a delightful and strange concept to any lonely soul, but when it was a bedmate you truly cared for- heaven on earth. He savored it while he could, all too aware that their time was drawing to a close._

_He smiled, a lazy, indulgent grin that accompanied the unusually soft and open expression lingering from the previous night's loving, reaching for her hand. He studied one of the few places they could normally touch without seeming obscene, watching as their fingers entwined tightly, fitting together perfectly in a simple but intimate gesture._

_Her hand felt so small and delicate wrapped in his own, impossibly immaculate against his rough and clumsy palm, stained with years of living. And yet she overlooked it all, to be with him now._

_The contrast of their skin tones was obvious, as he lay his arms under hers, idly skimming his fingers up the smooth expanse of pale, flawless skin, the touch no more than the whisper of a caress as it lingered at the curve of her arm, eliciting soft, breathless laughter in his ear as he brushed over the sensitive point. He smirked, cocking an eyebrow in surprise. So she was ticklish?_

_She squealed with surprise and delight as he suddenly whirled around, digging his fingers into her ribs as he tickled her. His body leaned over her, his face animated with boyish glee as she collapsed in helpless laughter, begging him to stop with bated breath between giggles._

_He released her, bracing his weight on his elbows as he stared down at her, appearing extremely pleased with himself. Her face flushed and her eyes bright, she glared at him to the best of her ability, though coming from Claire the expression came off as more similar to a petulant pout._

_Peter smiled indulgently. There was not a vengeful bone in her entire body, he was sure, as he slipped her arms around her and rolled unto his back, cradling her slim body close to his side. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, and soft lips brushed over his skin, a chaste kiss pressed to the nape of his neck._

_She spoke quietly, her breath a warm caress over sensitive skin. He could just imagine the endearing blush likely to grace her face as she whispered to him. "I love you, Peter."_

_He turned his head, brushing her lips with his own in a whisper soft kiss. "Say it again," he breathed, allowing his mouth to linger for only a moment before descending in a trail of warm, light kisses, pausing to nuzzle the hollow of her throat._

_Her hands clenched at his broad shoulders for some form of support as her body went weak and languid as he pressed her back against the bed. "I love you," she repeated obediently, her voice faltering in the wake of a breathless gasp._

_One hand ascended over smooth muscles and the tanned column of his neck to tangle in the silky hairs at his nape, pulling him down into another kiss as he repeated her previous confession in low, husky tones thick with passion. "I love you too, sweetheart."_

_The faintest of light streamed from the open window nearby, the curtains drawn back to reveal the skies overhead, vaguely lit with the amber traces of early dawn. Morning had finally come, and their time was growing shorter._

"Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"I made a decision about next year."

"What'd you decide?"

"I've already sent in my transfer application to NYU. Peter…I'm coming home."

 


	8. Temptation In The Garden

He looked good.

 

When she thought about it, there was really no way to deny it- even if she wanted to. Even as her feelings for him had deepened, her attraction to him had only intensified, grown more palpable and enflamed.

 

He sat across the table from her, textbooks and notebooks spread out before them both, his laptop open and focused intent of his attention, fingers moving rapidly over the keyboard.

 

She’d come back to her dorm before to find her roommate with unexpected company, and Heidi hosting a play date for the boys at the house, she’d found herself seeking refuge with Peter. While he worked on his graduate thesis, she sat in his apartment with a theology term paper looming over her head, joining him in his studies.

 

But back to the aforementioned topic currently dominating her mind…if there was anyone that could look just barely his age, it was definitely Peter- over thirty looked good on him.

 

He was so serious, deep in his concentration; she had to admit there was something incredibly sexy about his solemn, studious expression- especially the slim-framed glasses perched upon the bridge of his nose.

 

That particularly accessory had taken her by surprise, her eyes widening as she stepped into the room and spotted them on his face, Peter boyishly blushing under her scrutiny and murmuring an excuse about having to wear them to read.

 

He was clean-shaven, emphasizing the strong profile of his jaw and cheekbones; he had let his hair grow out, infamous bangs tucked behind his ear but perpetually falling in his eyes, the thick locks grown passed his nape taking on a tendency to curl against his neck.

 

He had spent that morning at a meeting for a prospective hospital interested in sponsoring his internship after finishing medical school, and his clothing reflected it; a dark blue button-down open at the collar to give just a hint of chest, sleeves rolled up to reveal the impressive brawn of his forearms, well-fitting khaki slacks giving him a casually formal dress.

 

God, she had to wonder if the man had any notion of his own sexual charisma.

 

Though…said sexual charisma probably should not be noticed by said man’s relatives- especially his younger niece- but she had given up long ago fighting the connection he seemed to share with her- mind, body and heart- that far surpassed any blood ties genetics had forced upon them.

 

“Are you hungry?”

 

The question caught her off-guard, Peter flashing her a gentle smile as she glanced up at him perplexedly. He repeated his question at her puzzlement, amusement coloring his voice to have caught her spacing.

 

She guessed he would be less pleased if he knew just what she was daydreaming about.

 

“Starving.”

 

He smiled again, and lifted himself from his chair to order calzones and salads from an old Italian bistro a few blocks away. When she heard the name, she smiled with remembrance- they had eaten there together a number of times when she was younger- glancing down at her textbook as a particular passage caught her eye.

 

“It’ll be here soon.”

 

She watched him settle back into the chair across from her, the silence falling over them as he turned his attention back to his laptop.

 

“Hey, Peter,” she stated after a few moments of the quiet.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“We were discussing something in theology today, and I was wondering what your take was on it.”

 

“What was the topic?”

 

“Original sin.”

 

Peter hummed thoughtfully to himself, “Did you study the origin story from Genesis?”

 

“Yeah. Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.”

 

“…hmm-mm…Eve was tempted by the serpent to eat the fruit belonging to the Tree of Knowledge, something God had forbidden. Eve in turn offered the fruit to Adam, and God cast them out of the garden. From then on, all of their descendents were born with the mark of Adam and Eve’s sin at birth. Sound familiar?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“So what exactly did you want to know?”

 

“…what was it, do you think, that drew Eve to the fruit? I mean, you can only put so much blame on the serpent. In the end, what made her give into the sin...?”

 

…Her foot glided across the floor, sliding along his shin…

 

“The temptation, I suppose.”

 

…said foot made its way up his panted leg to his knee, kneading into the muscle of his thigh…

 

“Why do you think people get tempted by what’s wrong? What’s so appealing about things we shouldn’t do?”

 

Almost on cue, his head shot up, his eyes locking on her, dark and wanting. He licked his lips before continuing, “There’s an excitement, an appeal to the forbidden. People risk everything to feel it.”

 

“Even if it’s sinful?”

 

“Especially then,” his voice dropped an octave, low and darkly husky.

 

…her foot shifted even higher, grazing over his aroused groin, causing him to groan deeply…

 

“Claire,” he practically breathed out her name.

 

And with timing the universe (a/n: or Tim Kring) seemed determined to use in order to screw them over, the door rang.

 

Claire nonchalantly rose to her feet and circled the table, feeling the weight of his eyes on her the whole time as she leaned over him, her hand brushing his waist, and then his buttocks as she reached into his back pocket in search of his wallet.

 

“Be just a minute,” she whispered softly in his ear, deliberately brushing against him. She took the last step in her seduction, speaking to him in a sensual mental whisper, knowing the subtlety rather than blatancy would be what it would take for Peter to cave in.

 

_I want you, Peter…please…_

Peter’s back stiffened as she passed, frozen ramrod as she made her way to the door to pay for the food.

 

The door had barely closed behind the delivery boy before he heard the sound of the lock turning, the soft click echoing through the foyer, and Claire returned a moment later, her eyes intent on him. She set the food upon the kitchen counter, neither of their interest currently focused on their stomachs.

 

Before he knew it, she was straddling his lap, sliding his glasses from his face, her mouth on his, Peter’s hands clutching at her hips as he responded vehemently to her eager kiss.

 

He placed his hands at the back of her thighs, holding her to him as he groaned low in his throat, Claire’s lips trailing along his neck as her fingers buried themselves in his hair. She nipped at his collarbone and he shivered, Claire smiling against his skin.

 

He always had liked that spot.

 

He took in a ragged breath, releasing it in a pent-up sigh as if to steady himself, and she felt the tension slowly drain from his body with it. He looked at her, his eyes thoughtful, gentle, his fingers stroking against her cheek, “Claire…you’ll be the death of me, sweetheart.”

 

She giggled, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I’m afraid not, babe. According to Dr. Suresh, you and I might live for a very long time.”

 

“We better learn how to keep busy then, shouldn’t we?”

 

“Oh, absolutely.”

 

He grinned as he hauled her to him, pulling her close as he stood up, Claire’s legs wrapping instinctually around his waist. Their mouths met and clung, sharing deep, hungry kisses as he lifted her and stumbled toward the hallway, a vague destination of the bedroom in his mind.

 

+++

 

“If we do this, we’ll have to be careful. No one- absolutely no one- can ever find out.”

 

“I know…”

 

“…we’ll always have to be a secret, sweetheart. Can you handle that? We can’t ever be normal…”

 

“…if it means being with you…I can handle anything…”

 

+++

 

He sat in thought beneath the shade of an over-looming willow, garbed in a loose t-shirt and denim shorts, barefoot in the summer heat. So immersed in his concentration, he did not feel her approaching presence until he felt the light pressure of a hand on his shoulder, the brush of warm breath tickling against his skin as she whispered in his ear.

 

“It’s improper of me to interrupt a man in such serious contemplation, but you seem way too serious.”

 

He jumped, shooting her an irritable, sidelong look to which she only rolled her eyes and leaned against his shoulder, teasingly brushing her lips against the sensitive spot below his ear.

 

Peter glanced at her, faintly surprised at her boldness, and she merely smiled at him, feigning an expression of innocence.

 

“They’re not here.”

 

Inwardly relieved, he found himself returning the gesture, his mouth stretching into an amiable grin almost against his will. His hands grasped hers, drawing her to him. Claire came willingly, allowing herself to be pulled into his lap, folded into his arms.

 

Her head tucked beneath his chin, resting against his chest and their fingers enlaced, Peter raised the entwined limbs to press his lips to her palm.

 

He sighed contently, his eyes sliding closed and his head leaning back against the tree behind them. “It’s peaceful out here,” he told her softly, “There’s a serenity that completely transcends everything else. It makes everything else seem…stale and forced…like it’s not as real.”

 

She shifted against him, and he felt the weight of her gaze, though he did not open his eyes. Claire glanced at him curiously; neither demanding nor accusing, only inquisitive. “Peter?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“What brought that on?”

 

He shrugged. “I’m not certain. You know this place- this house- this family- has always made me feel out of place.”

 

“Out of place?” she let out a bitter sound of laughter, settling back against him, “I can understand that.”

 

He dropped a kiss to her hair, tightening his arms around her. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. It’s too unfair how he treated you.”

 

Nathan’s distance at the very beginning of he and Claire’s relationship did continue to sting, and both of them knew it. “You shouldn’t apologize. You’ve never treated me different because of what I am.”

 

“No,” and he chuckled softly, surprising even himself with the sentiments falling from his tongue, “It’s who you are that I fell in love with. You have never been different to me.”

 

He kissed her softly, warmth filling his eyes that made her heart lurch with feeling, “You have always been Claire. Family, friends, lovers…that’s all I need to know.”

 

Claire smiled, stroking his cheek, “You are a gentle heart, Peter Petrelli…never change.”

 

“Anything you wish,” he whispered into her ear, pressing his lips to the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, sliding down the strap of her tank-top to gain better access. Their eyes met.

 

“I’ve missed you,” he told her mournfully, as he rained kisses along whatever bare skin he could access, “Missed you so badly.”

 

 _Shouldn’t I be the one feeling neglected, love,_ she teased mentally, knowing full well he would hear her, as she tilted her head back, fingers threading through his hair as he continued his ministrations, _My bed’s gone cold with all this studying you’re focused on._

“Negligence on my part is unforgivable; let me make it up to you _,”_ and the flirting rapport fell into more basic relayed impulses of desire and love and lust as he pressed her back to the soft earth, the weight of his body settling over her.

 

Slow and unhurried, the warmth of the sun against their naked skin was a sensual contract to the cool grass embracing them as they fell back against the ground, rising and falling together in a steady dance their bodies and hearts took equal pleasure in.

 

Rising higher and higher to that final crescendo, Peter could feel the strain in his quivering muscles, his arching body, and the sweet tension building inside. Claire was all he could feel around him, slender arms locking around his shoulders and her lithe body trembling beneath him, soft sounds in his ear letting him know the moment she came into her pleasure.

 

With the familiar feel of her all around him, he surrendered to his release.

 

There was a contemplative quiet that settled over them as they lay in the aftermath, curled up together on the outstretched material of their clothing. Peter absently kissed her bare shoulder, sighing softly as he stared up at the skies stretching above them. “Do you ever think about the what if’s?” he asked quietly.

 

His unspoken words hung in the air between them. _What if things were different, what if Nathan wasn’t…we weren’t…if blood wasn’t everything…?_

 

“Honestly? Every day.”

He smiled ruefully. “I wish it was different,” he responded with a soft press of his mouth to hers, accompanied by his phantom caress had her pulling back, rising from their resting place and began to reach for her clothes. Peter tucked his arms behind his head, cocking his head to openly admire the subtle arch of her back and the curvaceous figure presented to him.

 

Of course, Peter had never been a man content to just watch; and with such an array of powers at his whim and disposal, he was more than capable of devising new methods to torture her.

 

Phantom fingers slowly stroked down her spine and she glanced back over her shoulder, ignoring the shiver coursing through her at the sensual touch, gave him a wink and ignored his unabashed staring as she finished dressing.

 

Claire strolled back to him, knelt back down to his level, and wiped away the mischief of his grin with a slow, lingering kiss, her hand grazing down to fondle the rapidly swelling anatomy below his waistline.

 

He groaned as she drew away, pressing a quick peck to the corner of his mouth as she drew back up. _I’ll leave you alone, Peter…let you get back to your thinking._

“As if you don’t know what I’ll be thinking about,” he responded petulantly.

And she left him to himself in the garden, with the sound of her resounding laughter on the breeze and his ever-growing smile.

 


	9. Moving Forward

“Claire Elizabeth Petrelli.”

 

Even five years after the fact, it was still strange to hear the sound of the name referring to herself, her public face since Nathan had publicly announced her official adoption into his family on her seventeenth birthday.

 

It felt like a mask she wore, a phantom identity not quite her own. Her “public face”, smooth and complacent as marble stone- a name that drew her closer to Peter Petrelli in a way she wished did not exist.

 

It was strangely disconcerting to feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on her, as she crossed the stage with as much grace as she could muster, despite her shaky legs.

 

The New York University graduating class of 2012 was a large, prestigious bunch; the perfect crowd for the daughter of New York’s Congressman Petrelli to mingle within; the perfect crowd for her to learn the societal games of pretend necessary to her survival as a Petrelli.

 

As her hand closed around her diploma, her eyes scanned over the crowd, inevitably drawn to Peter’s. He was applauding, standing not with the family but instead with their friends- the small group stringed together by the strange circumstances of their abilities and stopping the ticking time-bomb Peter had once been.

 

His face was animated with euphoria, glowing with such pride, and she smiled- the first time that day the expression had been genuine.

 

+++

 

“How have you guys been?” came Claire’s question to the first of the misfit group to approach her after she escaped Nathan and his impromptu photo-op, a playfully bickering Niki and D.L., and a sixteen-year-old Micah, grown to tower over her since puberty.

 

“We’ve been just fine, hon,” Niki replied as she moved forward to embrace her, “Congratulations. You looked fantastic up there.”

 

“Thanks,” Claire blushed faintly, a little embarrassed by the compliment as D.L. stepped up next, drawing her into an unexpected bear-hug. She squealed with protest as the big man lifted her off her feet, whirling her around a bit, clutching at his shoulders for balance as D.L. laughed.

 

“D.L.!” she smiled, almost involuntarily, though she tried to look chastising.

 

“You did it, Sunshine.”

 

She wrinkled her nose at the familiar nickname, rolling her eyes as she pressed a kiss to his cheek, demanding to be let down. D.L. complied, wrapping his arm around Niki as the couple watched as Micah stepped forward, shyly averting his eyes as he offered an awkward congratulations.

 

Hiro was enthusiastic as ever in his greetings, Ando rolling his eyes behind the ever-gleeful Japanese man but offering her soft salutations all the same.

 

Matt, with his boyish smiles and teddy-bear cuteness- at least, that’s how she had always thought of the man- stepped forward and gave her a friendly hug, squeezing the shoulder of six-year-old Matthew at his side. A divorced single father relocated to New York with admirable learned control over his abilities, he had grown to be a strong building block of the small group.

 

Isaac was more hesitant than the others, more restrained as he obligingly kissed her cheek and congratulated her on her accomplishment. His expression discomforted even more as Peter approached, the tension more than palpable as her lover hovered protectively at her side, eyes hard as they stared the artist down.

 

In the six years following Simone’s death, the two men were uncomfortable as ever in each other’s presence, Peter the more aggressive of the two, but still, sharing the same group of associations, they at least made an effort to be cordial- for their friends’ sake.

 

Claire shook her head, making an effort to ignore the two men by turning back to the eagerly chatting Hiro. Peter, however, quickly diverted his attention by wanting hers.

 

Warm arms suddenly surrounded her, lulling her into instant comfort as she caught the subtle scent of him, a hint of the cologne she’d bought him for his birthday, sinking back into the heat of him. “You have no idea how proud of you I am,” he whispered to her, his voice only audible to her ears.

 

She could only nod in response, pecking his cheek and reluctantly withdrawing from his embrace so not to cross the line in their interactions between familial and something more. They would have said more if it wasn’t for being unrepentantly swamped by the rest of the Petrelli clan.

 

Claire forced a smile as she fell into small talk with Heidi and her grandmother, communicating with her hero the only way not to get them caught.

 

_Peter…_

 

His head turned from his conversation with Nathan, gaze locking on her in question.

 

_Have dinner with me tonight?_

A curt nod in reply, a spark of enthusiasm and a small smile _._

_Peter…_

_I love you._

 

The look in his eyes, the utter tenderness and affectionate warmth resounding there, gave her all the response she could ever need.

 

Caught up in his expression and the weight of her own thoughts, Claire took no notice to the strange, befuddled looks Matt shot in each of their directions.

 

+++

 

“So what’s on the menu?”

 

Peter grinned as she sidled up beside him, his eyes lazily trailing over her slender frame- outfitted in a white blouse, clinging subtly to the curves of her body, her black skirt cutting off mid-thigh and showing off enough leg to bring an appreciative gleam to his gaze.

 

“My eyes are up here, baby,” her voice broke through his thoughts, colored with amusement at his obvious distraction.

 

“I know, but I can’t really help myself. Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

 

“Upon occasion,” she smiled, “But it’s still nice to hear.”

 

“Then you’ll have to remind me from time to time, to tell you how gorgeous you are. I can’t keep my eyes off you, sweetheart.”

 

She reached her arm around his neck, pulling his head down to meet hers in a soft kiss. He smiled against her lips, gave a whisper of “I love you” as he kissed her again, more lingeringly this time.

 

It was amazing, that even six years after their first night together, nearly a year since they decided to begin their clandestine affair, they found themselves still lingering in their honeymoon period.

 

It was times like this that they could forget…that they could pretend they could be a normal couple; their relation did not exist…that love could transcend any way blood sang to blood.

She slid her arms around his waist, resting her chin in the crook of his shoulder as she watched his hands move expertly as he tended to his simmering pots and pans. “So…will you tell me what you’re making, or do I have to guess?”

 

“Ravioli picante, Caesar salad with raspberry vignette, and garlic bread.” He turned his head enough to smile at her. “There’s a good merlot in the cabinet. Would you mind opening it?”

 

“Mmm, sounds fantastic, Peter. Where’d you learn this?” she asked as she took the bottle of wine from the pantry, rustling around in a drawer for his corkscrew.

 

“Remember when I told you about leaving college my junior year?”

 

“Yeah. You traveled, right?” she opened one of the cabinets in search of wineglasses, pouring them both a hearty amount, earning his murmur of thanks as she handed him his glass, taking a deep draught of her own.

 

“Mmm-hmm. I spent a lot of time in Italy. I knew the language, and I have a third cousin- your fourth, I suppose- who runs a bistro in Sicily, let me bus tables for a place to sleep,” he smiled wryly, pointing his sauce ladle at her, “I was plenty prepared…if there’s anything Vincent Petrelli was adamant about, it was not letting our heritage die.”

 

She curled a long blonde strand of hair around her finger, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Heritage…right.”

 

Smirk, “Well…some more than others.”

 

“Right. So…Italy…”

 

“Yeah.” He rolled up his sleeves, smoothly dicing the last ingredients needed in his sauce. “The food there was spectacular, and I was too curious not to pick up a few recipes.”

 

“Well,” she pressed a kiss to his neck, taking another sip from her wine, “It smells amazing. It’s good to see you putting some skills to use.”

 

“…hmm…if dinner wouldn’t be in danger of burning, I’d show you just how skilled I am in other areas…”

 

Delighting in the sultry gleam to his eyes, Claire slid behind him. She slipped her hands into the back pockets of his jeans, lightly squeezing his backside as she brushed her lips against his neck, her tongue lightly tracing over his racing pulse-point.

 

Peter groaned, letting his head fall back, her hand stroking along his jaw-line as she cupped his chin, drawing his mouth to hers in a deep, bone-melting kiss.

 

When they parted for only lack of oxygen, he licked his lips, temporarily diverting his attention back to his pot to taste the sauce.

 

He smacked his lips to the sultry taste of the spice, offering his spoon to her for her perusal. Claire’s eyes closed as she savored the paste, her lips closing around his thumb as he skimmed it against her mouth, sucking at the digit in a provocative fashion that had him swallowing hard, his eyes darkening as he gazed at her.

 

She released his finger, pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, throwing him a wink as she slid past, grabbing her wineglass as she made her way to the living room.

 

“Tease,” he grumbled, earning her good-natured laughter as he set the ravioli shells to boil, making his way out into the living room to find her standing near the entertainment center, sipping delicately from her glass, body swaying to the smooth, melodious chords of the soft jazz playing from the stereo.

 

He placed his hands on her hips, pressing a kiss to the curve of her neck as he set her wineglass aside, whispering in her ear, “Dance with me.”

 

And they came together, not in the way they have collided occasion after occasion in some forceful twist of fate, but a smooth, fluid gesture as he pulls her to him, her body fitting seamlessly to his.

 

They moved together, mimicking the movements everyone picks up on sometime or another, learning to slow dance, and her head rested against the crook of his neck, his arms around her waist.

 

Her hands glided up his back, sleek skin beneath the thin fabric of his long sleeved t-shirt a forbidden, delicious indulgence beneath her fingertips, coming to rest at his broad shoulders.

 

There was a heat between them, dizzy and blinding, almost surreal as it embraced them both with welcoming arms, overtaking any sense of reality that took precedence in their minds. He pressed a kiss to the junction between her neck and shoulder, trailing his lips lightly down the sharp definition of her collarbone. He felt her shudder under his touch, shift just a little closer.

 

He breathed in the scent of her perfume, not the heavy floral type some women seemed to prefer, but a subtle, light fragrance, a mild mixture of spice and sweet that fit her personality so well.

 

Heat, so much heat, the feel of her body pressed flush against his, the rhythmic movement of her hips as they swayed to the music, the delicate way her thick lashes fell like spider’s silk against porcelain skin as she closed her eyes.

 

Claire, Claire. So much heat, just heat and Claire. His head felt dizzy, as if he was in the ocean, under the water where the world was submerged in soundless dark, and his breath was not coming freely, panting and hot, and his heart was thundered, reverberating so loud in his chest he was sure she would hear it.

 

“Peter…” she whispered in his ear, lightly brushing her lips against the lobe, and the sound of his name spoken so softly, so intimately, almost sends his world topsy-turvy as he fills with a strange sensation that almost sends him reeling in its intensity.

 

He knows this feeling she can invoke in him so easily, so effortlessly.

 

And with the way the universe loved to continue to torment them, the sound of his ringing doorbell broke through the intimate silence enveloping the apartment.

 

 


	10. Suspicions

And with the way the universe loved to continue to torment them, the sound of his ringing doorbell broke through the intimate silence enveloping the apartment.

 

Peter’s rather theatrical groan reverberated in time with the chiming of the bell, accompanied by Claire’s giggling at the blatant disappointment in his expression. She patted his cheek soothingly, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before disengaging from his embrace, leaving Peter pouting rather puppy-like as she sat down on the sofa, delicately raising her wineglass to her mouth.

 

She arched an eyebrow at him, the corners of her lips lifting into a smirk, “Well? Aren’t you going to answer it?”

 

“…you are too cruel…”

 

“If that’s how you want to look at it.”

 

“You so owe me later.”

 

“Count on it.”

 

“Make it worth my while, sweetheart?”

 

“Always,” came her affirming reply, accompanied by a wink that had Peter quietly groaning to himself, knowing it was all he could do not to bolt the door and take her to bed right then and there.

 

Peter backed his way slowly to the door, surprisingly not tripping over anything, all the while gazing at her with a heated, languorous expression that had her increasingly regretting sending him away from her proximity.

 

…The things the man did to her…

 

Unfortunately for them both- and their libidos- the moment the door swung open to reveal Matt Parkman on the other side, taking Claire to bed was soon the last thought on his mind.

 

+++

 

“So, Claire, I thought you were going out with your friends tonight?”

 

Matt’s question was far from catching her off-guard, especially after the several moments that had passed between Peter and Matt eyeing each other in the open doorway, all the more awkward when he spotted Claire over Peter’s shoulder, tactfully deciding not to say anything except hello and an apology for interrupting.

 

Not wanting to look suspicious, Peter had really no choice but to invite him inside. Matt had accepted his offer of a glass of wine, sitting in the armchair across from the ‘couple’, seated a respectable distance from one another on the couch.

 

It was Peter that chose to respond to Matt’s question, “I didn’t want Nathan to think I was monopolizing his daughter. I wanted the chance to congratulate her on her new job offer.”

 

“Job offer?” Matt looked intrigued.

 

Claire smiled, somewhat shyly, “Yeah. I’ve been offered a position at the Times.”

 

“The Times? The New York Times? Claire, that’s fantastic,” Matt grinned, “Why didn’t you tell us at the ceremony?”

 

“Everyone was making a big deal out of my graduating. Telling them about the newspaper would have just added fuel to the fire,” Claire glanced down sheepishly, shrugging, “Honestly, I can only take being the center of attention for so long.”

 

“This coming from a former cheerleader,” Peter teased.

 

Claire eyed him with mock irritation, sticking her tongue out in his direction.

 

“Juvenile.”

 

“Oh? This coming from the thirty-two-year-old who practically lives off bologna sandwiches and Cocoa Puffs?”

 

“Hey! Food’s food.”

 

Claire rolled her eyes, glancing at him wryly, “Speaking off, food…what are the chances something on your stove is probably burning by now?”

 

“Shit.” Hurriedly excusing himself, Peter dashed off to the kitchen, obviously in hopes of saving his promised dinner.

 

Matt watched their interactions with a sort of bemused amusement, as Claire laughed, her eyes on a harried Peter. They interacted so easily, so fluidly- like family, friends…but lovers? Maybe he had been mistaken…perhaps he had misunderstood what he had heard between them.

 

He’d always thought of the Petrellis as an odd family, Nathan more a shark than politician and his mother little more than a block of ice with legs, but Peter and Claire endeared to him, both their personalities and their relationship with one another.

 

It was rare to find someone to forge a connection with that even neared how strong the two were bonded. After all, Claire and Peter were uncle and niece, particularly close and fond of one another since Claire had been a teenager. The idea of them of them crossing that line was just preposterous.

 

Right?

 

Matt shook his head, exhausting even himself with the circles his mind was going in…he was even starting to contradict himself. He noticed Claire glancing at him quizzically and he offered her a wan smile, which did not help to ease her questioning expression.

 

“You okay, Matt? Getting one of your headaches?”

 

“Nah. Just…a little distracted.”

 

“Okay…if you’re sure. It’s not your power, right? Last I heard, you’d worked out some pretty powerful mental control.”

 

“Yeah. It’s not that.” No way was he going to mention that some things still unintentionally filtered through from time to time.

 

Such as for instance…a dinner invitation and love confession he was trying desperately to convince himself had been purely platonic. Okay, maybe no platonic, but familial, friendly.

 

No way was he admitting to a damn thing.

 

“As long as you’re alright.” She was still regarding him with that odd expression, genuinely concerned. Claire always had been such a nice girl.

 

“I’m good.”

 

Nod, “So, if I’m not being rude, why’d you come by anyway? Peter first on your list of hangout buddies?”

 

He smiled at the teasing lilt to her young voice, shrugging. “Just needed to talk to him ‘bout something. It can wait until later.”

 

“Really? What about?”

 

“Can’t say. Top secret.”

 

His serious tone drew a smile from her and she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, “You don’t say? So what’d you do to end up being the messenger boy?”

 

He scratched the back of his head, sensing on some level he’d been caught, “Pardon?”

 

She faced him, amused, “Whatever you guys are planning. How did you get conned into being the one to come to talk to Peter?”

 

Matt sighed, defeated, “How’d you find out?”

 

“Niki and Hiro wrangle everybody into throwing me a party every time they think I need it. When I finished high school, when I went to London and came back, my birthday…why would my graduation be any different?”

 

“Kinda predicable, huh?”

 

“No, it’s sweet,” she grinned, “Besides, I like being with everyone a lot more than I want to go to this family function Nathan’s throwing tomorrow. If it wasn’t supposedly in my honor, I don’t think I could even drag Peter there with a forklift. Somebody’s got to keep me from dying of boredom.”

 

“Peter’s the man for that job?” _Please God, don’t let it be like a date…not a date, not a date, not a date, not a da-_

“Better him than one of the dates Gram keeps trying to set me up on.” She shook her head, grimacing. “I think trust-fund baby is just code for dull and blah.”

 

He winced sympathetically, “Any of them get too touchy-feely, give me a call. I don’t own a gun for show.”

 

 _Papa Bear,_ was the thought that filtered through Matt’s mental shields, and he smiled, affection for the girl turned young woman sitting before warming him from the inside out.

 

“’Kay,” smiling fondly at him, “I’m guessing you came to ask Peter about free time?” at his nod, “Sunday maybe? Like I said, tomorrow’s all tied up.”

 

“Okay,” he smiled, leaning in conspiratorially, “Just do me a favor?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Act surprised. Niki’ll bring out Jessica to kick my ass if she thought I ruined the party for you.”

 

Claire laughed, nodding her compliance, and Peter chose that moment to reenter the kitchen, clapping his hands together as he glowed with pride over his meal. “Dinner’s ready. Matt, you want to join us?”

 

Looking fondly between his friends, his mind a bit more at ease, Matt found not reason not to agree.

 

+++

 

Two hours later, he found himself in a much heavier state of mind.

 

Pulling uncomfortably the collar of his shirt, the material sticking chafing against his sweat-damp back in the humid August night air, Matt trudged down the New York boulevard, intent on the subway closest to Peter’s Manhattan apartment.

 

The familiarity of the touches shared so easily and intimately between them- a brush of fingers, Claire’s parting kiss to Peter’s cheek, the hand Peter kept at the small of her back as he walked her to the door. The way they looked at each other, how close they sat at the table, the way they smiled.

 

“Are you staying the night?” Peter had offered his niece as he polished off the last of the pasta on his plate, forcing nonchalance even as their eyes met and locked, “I could make up the couch-bed.”

 

“Thanks for the offer, but I can’t,” had been his reply, Claire feigning a chance to still take up her friends’ invitation and grab a drink or two before she returned to her own apartment.

 

It was around ten-thirty when she left, hugging and kissing them both good-bye, Matt trying not to notice the way she lingered at Peter. Peter had been walking her out when it happened, when another of their little communications had hit Matt’s mind.

 

Claire had been leaning up, her arms around Peter’s neck, face leaning against the crook of his shoulder when her mental voice broke through Matt’s awareness, a whisper but unmistakable. _I’ll make it up to you later, handsome. Be back in a couple hours. Promise._

“See you tomorrow, Peter,” she’d said aloud, giving her uncle one final squeeze and a peck to his cheek before releasing him.

 

Peter’s accompanying grin did nothing to quell his suspicions. “I’ll hold you to that,” he had responded, and the double-entrente of the answer had not been lost on Matt.

 

They weren’t family- they were lovers.

 

Either too numb or stunned or too in denial, he was not certain, but neither could he muster up the heart to call either of them on it.

 

Peter had offered him another drink and a chance to stay and talk for a while, but Matt had declined, desperate to get out of there and find a way to straighten out his head.

 

Only half-aware of his actions, he found himself with his cell phone in hand, hastily dialing out a familiar number, grateful for the case that had brought an old friend all the way to the east coast in the first place.

 

“Audrey…? I know it’s late…no, Mattie’s with a sitter. Hmm-mm. Listen, does that hotel room of yours come with a mini-bar? Good.”

 

He sighed, tiredly rubbed his hand over his face, “I’d rather not talk about it, but right now, I really need a drink.”

 

 


	11. Autumn Chill

The pallid beams of light trickled down from the lunar specter hanging among the ebony skies stretching above the earth, spilling in through the wide-paned window to give the lightest hint of luminescence.

In the ghostly glow, he could make out her faint silhouette, the proverbial curves and contours of her body outlined by shadow. The air outside was more than likely cold and biting with the frost of early winter, evident through the misty haze fogging the window.

But the cold was chased away by their warm cocoon of blankets and entangled bodies, sheltered by a heavy, faded quilt he had dug out of his linen closet and lulled into a languid, drowsy sleepiness by the body heat shared between them.

Peter smiled faintly as he listened to her murmur softly under her breath, nestling closer to him, sweetly pliant and yielding in his arms despite their earlier battle regarding the heavy flannel nightgown now covering her slight frame.

That autumn, the weather had taken a severe turn from the lingering warmth of summer to lead them into one of the coldest seasons they had seen in a good many years. The last time Peter had visited the Petrelli manor for family dinner, both of Nathan and Heidi’s boys had been in bed with a severe flu bug.

By the time Claire had come home with him back to his place, his concern and worry had not lessened at her constant reminder she did not get sick, and he had hovered and cosseted, fussed and henpecked until she was beyond exasperated by him.

But still, she didn’t seem to really mind as much as he would have thought, and though she argued and teased him for being a mother hen, she always grudgingly submitted, disgruntled but indulgent to his whims.

This latest whim had been to bundle her up against the cold of the evening, and though she had pointed out that he had no problem sleeping in the buff despite the chill, he had only smiled and pulled her into his arms, kissing her breathless until neither of them had the will to fight anymore.

Tactile euphoria swept over him, enveloping him in endless sensations, his naked skin sliding against clean sheets, the pleasant warmth from their shelter of blankets soaking into him, the familiar weight of her curled against him.

He distantly regretted the fabric serving as a barrier between their bodies, separating him from the silken skin and soft curves his mind and hands remembered so clearly, and the fact he couldn’t make love to her in her tired state, but still the feeling rivaled with the serenity of having her warm and soft and breathing so peacefully in his arms, and he found he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Claire stirred against him, mumbling incoherently as she nuzzled against his neck, an absent sign of affection that came easily in the lazy contentment that had a hold on both of them, fear and insecurities pushed aside for an evening they could just enjoy each other.

He responded by disentangling one arm from between them and cupping her cheek, turning her face to meet his in a gentle kiss.

Her lips parted beneath his in quiet invitation, and he lazily kissed her, his senses bombarded with familiarity almost bittersweet in its rarity, the way her body shuddered lightly under his touch, the way she tasted, the clean, subtle scent she radiated.

She settled back onto the bed, stretching out on her stomach, and he joined her, slipping an arm around her waist to pull her close. He watched her as he lightly rubbed her back, her eyes fluttering closed with appreciation, the soft moan that escaped her as he took his hands lower, caressing her sides, the angle of her hips through the material of her nightgown.

He bent down, just hovering above body-to-body contact and he pressed a kiss to her nape, grazing his teeth lightly against the tender skin.

She hissed in a startled breath and angled her head back to kiss him, something different in this kiss, darker and hotter that invoked the flush of arousal through him, and he pulled back, struggling to temper his instinctual response as he dropped back into his place beside her, meeting her questioning eyes with a bashful smile.

“Sorry,” he whispered quietly, “I can’t help it.”

“Help what?” she asked, her voice tinged with naiveté, though she had a faint idea of the problem as she smoothed her hand over his abdomen, felt the subtle play of muscles shifting beneath his skin. She loved the feel of the unyielding strength of him; even more because of the profound gentleness she knew existed there as well, in his eyes, in his touch, in his smile.

“Wanting you.”

She couldn’t help the faint stir of surprise and pleasure that stirred at those words, for echoes of everything she’d gone through with her multiple sets of parents. The implications were vastly different, but she knew that with Peter’s want came his love, and the chance to be close to him.

The thought was more than enough to have her lips curling into a small smile. “And what’s wrong with that? I want you too.”

He squeezed his eyes shut as her caresses took on a light, teasing air, tracing circles along his chest and abdomen. He shook his head, not.” With a stifled groan, he grabbed her hand and stilled her motions. “Keep that up, and I’ll lose my resolve.”

“Maybe I want you too.” She stared at him for a moment, tilted her head inquisitively. “I’m not made of glass, Peter. I’m not going to break because it’s cold outside.”

“Get some rest. You worked a long day before Nathan made us come out.”

She sighed, and shifted away from him, lying back on the blankets. “Alright, fine.” She lay silent for a few moments and he wondered if she was sulking. He lay back with a sigh, glancing in her direction out of the corner of his eye, greeted with the sight of her rigid back. Her body radiating too much tension to be asleep, she was still eerily quiet, the silence stretching out between them stifling and disconcerting.

Peter shifted uncomfortably, his face contorting into a pained expression. He could not help himself from continuing to look her way, wondering, wanting, feeling discomforted by her lack of attention. He stared at her back, willing her to do something, say something, _anything…_

Finally, he acquiesced, however reluctantly, and turned to his side, facing away from her. He huffed, exhaling sharply, and began murmuring under his breath indignantly. However, a moment later, he felt a slender arm slip around his waist, and the warmth of her body pressing against his back.

The teasing brush of her breath against his skin, and then the sound of amused laughter in his ear, “Come on, Peter. Don’t tell me you’re pouting just because I wouldn’t pay attention to you.”

“I don’t pout,” he maintained, turning toward her half-heartedly, distracted by her fingers curling in his hair, toying with the soft tufts at his ears.

“Sure,” she responded, and he tilted his head to look at her, taking in the warmth in her eyes, the carefree quality of her smile. He shook his head and sighed, unable to hold back a grin as he basked in the rarity of her smile.

Taking advantage of her hold on him, he grabbed her arm and used his weight to roll them both over, landing with her beneath him. He straddled her waist, levering his weight lest he crush her, pinning her wrists above her head as he grinned down at her merrily.

She rolled her eyes though she shook with quiet laughter, and her face a-light with such warm delight was a breathtaking sight. His breath caught in his throat and he smiled lightly, his eyes softening. She caught his distraction and stared up at him quizzically, arching one fine brow in inquiry, studying the change in his expression.

Something akin to incredulous understanding flashed through her eyes, and she placed her hand behind his neck, drawing his head down to lightly kiss the corner of his mouth, brushing her nose against his cheek as she pressed her lips to his ear. “You’re wonderful, you know that?”

“How so?”

Her hand slipped upward, playing with the fine hair at his nape, smoothing through the soft tresses. “You just are. No one’s ever looked at me the way you do. It makes me feel…I don’t know…strange…I don’t understand it, but I know it’s all you’re doing.”

“No,” he breathed, bending down to press a kiss to the curve of her neck, the play of his lips against her skin sending a shiver down her spine, “You’re beautiful.”

She flushed, averting her eyes from his. Another playful grin played at his lips, delighting in her rare moment of shyness, and he bent his head to kiss her, slowly, languorously, feeling her body melt into his touch, sweet and soft and yielding.

He reluctantly broke their kiss, sinking down beside her onto the mattress, the length of the bed nearly ending after their escapades so that he flopped down at an odd angle so not to slid off, his head and feet dangling in open air.

He craned back his head, letting his eyes lazily trace over the familiar contours of her bedroom, coming to a slow stop at the window, curtains open to let in the faint moonlight.

“Do you remember when we used to go to the park,” he asked softly, “And we used to watch the clouds?”

“You mean when you dragged me outside on impossibly hot days because you wanted to show me the shapes in the clouds?”

“Exactly,” he sighed softly, almost regrettably, “I don’t think I like this time of year. It’s always too overcast to make out shapes.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then she only shook her head indulgently, familiar by now to his bizarre behaviors. “Why are you so set on being able to watch the clouds?”

“Cause it’s something we’ve done together. I like to be able to do things with you. I work so many nights it’s hard just to take you to dinner or a movie. Even the fair this summer was a bust…”

She frowned, “That’s my fault. I had to work and we couldn’t go.”

“Nah, s’not your fault.” He leaned back against the bed, his eyes closed as he yawned, his speech slurring as drowsiness bombarded his already dulled senses.

Claire swatted him in the arm. “Don’t fall asleep in the middle of a conversation,” she chided, “That’s a bad habit of yours.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, gazing at her through hooded eyes, “I’ll try not to. I’d like to do something, though. Maybe when the snow falls, we can go north.”

“North?”

“Hmm-mm. And stay at the family cabin. You’ll have to remember to bundle up tight, though. I won’t risk you getting sick.”

She closed her eyes, knowing his sleepy plans were a futile daydream, but still for a moment, she let part of herself believe him. “You’ve always taken care of me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

He smiled lightly, nuzzling his head against hers. “You’ve always deserved it. You’ve always deserved more than I could ever give you.”

“Stop that,” she said quietly, caressing a hand down his side, “We’re always trying to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Give each other more than we really can.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, “But it’s only natural, I guess.”

“Natural, huh?”

“Yeah,” he replied as he kissed her, slipping his arms around her to pull her closer, “Comes from loving.”

She slid her arms around his neck, curling against him once more as they lay back against the bed. “Then you know I love you, right?”

“Yeah. And I’m grateful for it, every day.”

She smiled at him, resting her head against his shoulder. “Sentimental idiot.”

“Maybe,” he responded, “But an idiot who cares about you.” He yawned, his jaw stretching to encompass the act. “So can I sleep now?”

“Of course.”

He murmured a drowsy reply, asleep before his head hit the pillow, and she nestled against him, listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Peter,” she whispered to the darkness, “When will you grow up?” she paused and sighed, “Do I even want you to?”

Only silence met her statement, and she accepted the quiet, closing her eyes to be lulled into a gentle sleep, ridden with dreams of the impossible.


	12. My Gift Is You

“You think we could just disappear together for a weekend without anyone getting suspicious?”  
  
Her tone was skeptical, and Peter sighed, turning his eyes from his roast beef sandwich- picked up at a park vendor they met at occasionally for lunch- and peered up at her. “If we’re careful, why not?”  
  
“Would the hospital even let you get away?”  
  
“I’m a med student, not a slave. They’d give me two days if I asked.”  
  
“It’s risky, Peter.”  
  
He took note of the look in her eyes, refusing to meet his as she picked at her tuna, the wavering of her resolve evident in the clear blue of her gaze. He leaned across the table to rest his forehead against hers, looking at her pleadingly. “C’mon, Claire. I’ll snatch Nathan’s keys without him even knowing. You can tell the family you’re going out of town. It’ll be fine.”  
  
Still, she hesitated, and he smiled softly, rubbing his nose against hers in the most innocent of Eskimo kisses, “Please?”  
  
“All right,” giving in, she kissed him gently, sifting her fingers through his hair, “You’re too cute to resist anyway.”  
  
Peter grinned.   
  
+++  
  
The cabin, it turned out, hadn’t been the best of ideas- at least not on the first night- but at least it was a chance to enjoy each other’s company. It rained, scattering along the landscape in heavy torrents, crashing against the window panes, drenching them before they even got inside just as the lightning was setting in. Within two hours, the electricity was wavering.   
  
She found herself dragged, though not unwillingly, from the drowsy, floating sensation of light, dozing sleep, grounded back to reality was the barely audible sound of his boots against the wooden floors. He may have been the only person able to approach her without her waking, but his was also the one presence she would always be able to sense.  
  
The room was warm, wonderfully so, closed off against the cold of the storm raging outside. Through the faint glow of the solitary candle in the corner, she watched through hooded eyes as he clicked off his flashlight, muttering under his breath as he tore off muddy boots and wet jacket, revealing his soaked state.   
  
Hair plastered against his skull and face, rivulets of water ran from the wet tresses over his skin until they disappeared into the dark clothes clinging like a second skin. As if sensing her eyes on him, he turned his head toward her, lips curling into an easy grin.  
  
“The fuse’s blown. We won’t have power until tomorrow.”  
  
She gave him a lazy smile, reaching back with her arms as she stretched lethargically. The sheets fell to her waist as her back arched, and she watched his eyes darken at the unspoken invitation. “That’s fine. We can keep each other warm.”  
  
He stripped himself of his shirt, and slipping between the blankets, slipping his arms around her to pull her tightly against him. The wet denim of his lower half pressed into her, but the hot insistence of his blatant arousal was more than distracting to the uncomfortable sensation.   
  
The touch of his chilled body raised goose bumps against her skin, but she found herself not caring as he kissed her, his mouth lingering in a slow and languorous stirring of passion.  
  
“You’re freezing,” she complained softly, giving a half-hearted attempt to shove him away as he trailed his lips down to her neck alternating between love bites that elicited shivers and warm caresses that caused her to gasp and shudder against him.  
  
“Like you said,” he murmured as he kissed her once more, “We’ll keep each other warm.” He leaned over her, pressing her back against the mattress.   
  
The flickering flame of the sole illumination causing shadows to dance across his bare back, and they lost themselves in each other, the cold long forgotten in the meeting of their bodies.   
  
He wasn’t sure what it was that drove them every time they came together like this, but it was something strong, potent, hot and blistering. He felt that strange, yearning desperation as he fumblingly unclipped her bra, sliding off her panties to bare her naked to his searching eyes.   
  
He tangled his fingers through her hair, and pulled her mouth back to his. Teeth clashed before she opened to his needy assault, his tongue delving greedily into her mouth, wanting to taste everything she offered and everything he so desperately needed.  
  
He worked his way downward now in a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses, and finally he found that part of her that ached for him, and he teased her, tormented her…assaulted her senses with raw, burning pleasure.   
  
Causing the ache to grow and grow until finally she was tugging impatiently at his belt, pushing at the waistband of his pants and boxers. Then she was straddling him, taking him inside her, and only oblivion awaited him from there.  
  
He flipped her on her back, and he was mindless, hungry, wanting, lusting, moving inside her a fierceness he couldn’t quite control, harder and harder, desperate to get closer, close as he could, closer still. He felt her nails gouging at his back, her voice pleading for the same thing. Harder, harder, deeper, closer, closer, just a little closer. To feel her, inside and out, in his heart, his mind, his body, to feel that unbearable heat wrap around him.  
  
As climax came, it was harsh and mind-blowing, washing over them like the sudden shock of a cold spring rain. He shuddered and bellowed, his shout echoing against the walls as she screamed his name and followed him a moment later, shaking and clenching around him, her nails tearing into his back, her teeth biting into his shoulder in an attempt to smother her call. He emptied into her, and he felt suddenly numb as he spiraled down into hot-cold, hurting-blissful, dark-euphoric pleasure.  
  
She held him close, stroked his back as he came down from his high and they calmed together, listening silently to the sound of the autumn rain against the rooftop.   
  
+++  
  
The first snow to hit the city came a few weeks later, and like every other winter they had shared together, he could not forget Claire’s childish exuberance for snowfall. They ventured out to Central Park that night side by side in their favorite meeting place, an old bench near the park’s center.   
  
Even with coats and blankets, it was their shared heat between them that most defeated the frigid temperature of the winter season. She was curled up against him, a feather-light bundle wrapped up in his arms, exhaled puffs of air clouds of white in the cold before them. Their minds at ease after long days, he leaned back and stared up at the sky just as the first flakes began to fall.  
  
He remembered catching them on his tongue as a boy, and he does the same now. She sent an amused glance in his direction and he gave a soft smile in return, fascinated by the way the snowflakes clung to her dark lashes, and melted among her wild tresses of golden hair.   
  
He reached his hand toward the skies, the skies full of ungraspable treasures, and as his fingers closed around empty air.  
  
He let his hand fall, his smile wistful. When she asked him what was wrong, he shook his head slightly, seeming pensive. “You know, don’t you,” he said quietly, “That I would give you anything in my power to give, even the world if I could?”  
  
Puzzled, she grasped his hand, lacing her fingers through his. “I don’t want the world, Peter.”  
  
“I know. But…” He extended a hand toward the sky once more. “There are so many things I want you to have, so many beautiful things that I want to give to you. Like a snowflake. But no matter how I reach more it, or long for it, it just melts away in my hand…”  
  
He turned to her once more, his eyes unreadable in the darkness. “Like freedom…”  
  
“There are so many things we can never touch, Peter. But all I’ve ever really wanted…”  
She gently kissed his knuckles, holding his hand against her cheek. “I found it with you. You’re here, Peter, and you’re real and solid. That’s all I need.”  
  
“If I could give you more…” he trailed off helplessly, leaning into the caress of her stroking fingers as they lightly traced against his face.  
  
She leaned closer, the white cloud of moisture separating them for just a moment before she kissed him gently. “You’ve already given me the world. You just don’t realize it.”  
  
He kissed her hand, smiling softly as they disentangled themselves from each other and rose to their feet, immediately coming together again. Peter’s arm slipped around her shoulders, anchoring her to his side.   
  
Claire returned the gesture, adjusting the awkwardness in their height as her arm hung around his waist, sliding a hand into his pants’ pocket. He was warm, deliciously so, and he cocked a playful eyebrow at her daring, earning a grin from her in reply.   
  
He dropped a kiss to the top of her head, the two of them settling into an easy pace as they walked back through the park. “So, what do you want for Christmas?”  
  
She blinked up at him in surprise, “Baby, Christmas isn’t for another month.”  
“I know,” he replied flippantly, shrugging his shoulders, “But it’s never too early to ask. So what do you want?”  
  
She sighed, pressing her face to the crook of his neck so to avoid eye-contact. “I want to be able to walk down the street no matter where we are, holding your hand. I want to be able to wake up beside you every morning, not just when we know we’re alone. I want to be able to take you to family dinners as my date, not a relative. I want to be with you for real, Peter.”  
  
Tenderness colored his expression, and his lips gently caressed her brow, “Claire…”  
  
She shook her head, cutting him off, “Don’t. Never mind. I’m just being stupid.”  
  
“You’re not being stupid. I want all those things too. It’s just-we’re just-”  
  
“I know,” she sighed again, leaning further into the warmth of his body, “What about you? What do you want for Christmas?”  
  
“You.”  
  
Quizzically, “You already have me.”  
  
“Exactly. I don’t have to ask for my gift. I already have it.”  
  
“…you are so incredibly cheesy sometimes…”  
  
“But you love me that way.”  
  
She didn’t miss a beat, “Never a doubt about that.”

 


	13. Yesterday's Reminiescence

She opened eyes heavy with sleep, blinking away blurry vision to focus on the source of the noise that had roused her. "Peter," she mumbled sleepily, watching him carefully closing the door behind him as he stepped into the bedroom.

He turned his head toward her at the sound of her voice. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"No." Her eyes were on him as he slipped out of his jacket and shoes. "…did you only just now get off work?"

"Yeah."

She glanced at the clock at the bedside, red digits flashing four a.m. "Didn't you work this afternoon too?"

"Interns work doubles all the time. It's practically etched in stone." He folded his jacket over the back of a nearby chair, looking up at her with worried eyes. "Are you sure you weren't sleeping?"

"I was just dozing."

He fixed her with a stern, inspecting gaze, taking in her bleary eyes. "You look like you could use the sleep. Did you try to wait up for me?"

She glared at him. "I don't need you to mother me, Peter."

"I never said I was. But I'm serious- you should really get some sleep. It's pretty late."

“If it's so late, why are you here?"

He hesitated.

"Peter?"

He hesitated, actually appearing sheepish for the first time she had seen in a while. The last time had been when he stole a cookie from her lunch tray when she came to see him at the hospital.

Another more deserving had been when he caught her at the family house, pulled her into the bathroom with him and made love to her, with her father- his brother- and his family right down the stairs. The wan smile that crossed over his face when he handed her back her panties had been so typically Peter.

"…I wanted to see you…that's all. Is there something wrong with that?"

"No," she told him simply, favoring him with a soft smile, "There's nothing wrong with that."

He cleared his throat, looking away for a moment. "Now that you've interrogated me, will you get some sleep?"

"Only if you stay with me."

His head swung around to face her once more, his eyes seeming to darken. He nodded silently, and without another word, he started toward her. As he came, he carefully removed the jewelry around his wrists, un-looped his belt, and unfastened the buttons to his shirt. He set his watch aside, shedding the garment as he climbed into the bed, slipping into the sheets beside her.

She sighed softly, with quiet contentment as his arms slipped around her, pulling her tightly against his body, and she embraced him in return, nestling her head against his bare chest.

She listened to the familiar beating of his heart; let the heat of deliciously warm skin soak into her. This was safe, this was familiar; this was Peter- home.

"Claire?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you having nightmares again?"

"…."

"Claire."

"Are you trying to parent me again?"

With an impatient sigh, he looped her fingers through her hair, roughly tilted back her head, and proceeded to kiss her more thoroughly than she had been kissed in days.

When they finally parted, her breath shallow and her head dizzy, she could only stare up at him in a daze, watching him frown. "Look…I'm not trying to parent you, sweetheart. I'm trying to love you."

She cupped her hands over his, delicately brushing her lips against the closest skin, his wrist. "I know, Peter." She smiled weakly. "I'm sorry for being difficult."

"Speaking of being difficult…"

"Yeah, yeah, sleep. I know."

She settled back against him, sighing as she absently traced her fingers along his chest. "I haven't been sleeping well, but…I've never had problems with you here. I was hoping you would come tonight. You drive the monsters away. "

Arms tightened around her, the light pressure of a gentle kiss fleeting against her forehead. "Are you still haunted by monsters, love? Even after all this time?"

"We all are, Peter," she whispered, closing her eyes against the ghosts of old memories beginning to stir at their conversation. "We can't change that."

The innocents they'd seen die around them that day, the sight of Peter's limp body, the fading sound of his heartbeat…the blood, the screams of Molly Walker when Sylar nearly took her life. D.L. and Matt struggling to hold on to their lives by a thread. It was not something that could fade so easily from their memories.

"I know, I know." He sighed, burying his face in the crook of her neck, the weight of his body settling comfortably against her as he shifted closer. "Sometime though…sometimes I want to be selfish. I want to take you so far away from here. Away from everything that could hurt you."

She soothingly ran her hand through his hair, letting her fingers slip through and tangle in the soft dark locks, sifting through the fine black hair above his nape. "I can't get hurt, remember?"

He glanced up at her, the stormy brown of his eyes dark and unreadable. "Not physically."

Her smile was small, cynical. "You can't heal those scars, babe."

"Claire…"

"We were the lucky ones, Peter."

"Lucky? You call all of this luck?" His tone was unintentionally harsh, and he mumbled a quiet apology as she winced.

"I never said it was good luck. I just meant…it's what we have. We aren't alone. We have each other. That's what's lucky."

His eyes darkened once more, his hands on her arms tightening, their grip painful. She was struck by the uneasy feeling she had unintentionally awakened something inside him.

"I'll fight for you. You know that, don't you? I'll fight to hell and back if I have to. I won't let you go. Not again."

She grimaced, but said nothing as she kissed him, her fingers digging into her shoulders, gripping hard enough to feel the jagged bone beneath solid muscle. The kiss was deep, more desperate than passionate, and she clung to him in its aftermath.

She never wanted to think about it, her desperate need…their mutual need…to feel him close by, to know that he was hers, that every part of him belonged to her. It was terrifying, disconcerting, to feel a longing that strong for him, the need to have him, all of him.

Always knowing there had to be something more. All of it, their tears, their embraces, their kisses, their passion, their sorrow, their lovemaking, it was still never enough.

To hear the same vigorous need echoed so desperately and roughly in his voice was frightening on its own.

She wanted to tell him no, to deny him, to tell him such a thing was never possible, that it came down to it- if they had to let each other go, there wasn't another choice, that such a love and such a need had to be wrong in so many ways.

She could not.

Instead, she did not deny the tears that gathered in her eyes, could not bring herself to look at him as she kissed him once more, gently this time, a soft press of her mouth against his, an apology, a plea, she wasn't sure which. "Never?" she whispered.

"Never," he affirmed, his voice rough with the finality of the vow.

And the quiet of the night around them was thick and palpable with all the unspoken thoughts, emotions…longings they could never bring themselves to say.


	14. A Shift In The Wind

“Hmm,” Peter murmured as he affectionately nuzzled his lover’s neck, “What time did you say you have to be to work?”  
  
“Eight,” Claire responded, trailing her lips down his jaw, teasingly nipping at his chin. “Why do you ask?”  
  
Peter shuddered and cupped a hand at the back of Claire’s head, tangling his fingers through thick golden-blonde hair, pulling Claire’s mouth back to his.   
  
He kissed her deeply, languorous in his exploration but ardent in his passion, leaving Claire ready to melt right then and there. She slid a hand up his back, eliciting shivers down his spine.  
  
Claire moaned softly, pushing herself closer to that intoxicating warmth radiating from Peter, unable to form a single thread of coherent thought in the wake of the amazing things Peter’s mouth and hands were doing to her libido.  
  
“God, Peter,” she groaned as they parted, gasping for breath, and Claire burrowed her nose into the crook of Peter’s neck, breathing in the clean, rich scent of him.   
  
It was a pleasant aroma that smelled like a strange mixture of an earthy musk and the spice of Peter’s cologne, an odor that had a habit of lingering every time Peter had been around. Not that Claire was complaining; sometimes it was comforting to find a jacket or a shirt that smelled of him.  
  
The familiar smell was soothing and enthralling, alluring in a way that had her both serene and unsettled whenever in this man’s embrace, and the only thing he really knew for sure was that he never wanted to let go.  
  
She mumbled incoherently, pressing a kiss to Peter’s nape as she combed his fingers through the fine hair she found there. “What were we talking about?”  
  
Peter’s lips curled into a small smile. “When you had to go to work.”  
  
“Oh…yeah. Why’d you ask?”  
  
“Because it’s already twenty after.”  
  
Claire grabbed his wrist to check Peter’s watch, her blue eyes thoughtful. “Well,” she said simply as she dropped Peter’s hand and leaned back against him, “Well.”  
  
“’Well’?” Peter inquired.  
  
Claire grinned mischievously, tilting her head back to press her lips to Peter’s, effectively distracting her lover as he groaned and instinctually responded, falling further and further into the heady sensation accompanying the kiss.  
  
“I guess they’ll just have to do without me,” Claire said softly, each word punctuated by a kiss, her hands gripping Peter’s arms for support as she straddled his lap, gently kneading the tension from muscular shoulders. Peter leaned back, submitting gratefully to the ministrations, muttering appreciatively under his breath.  
  
Claire smiled, listening to Peter sigh contently as she worked out a particularly knotted kink, his body sliding bonelessly back against the couch. He gazed up at Claire through hooded eyes. “Are you sure it’s okay for you to stay home?”  
  
“Yeah. I’ve barely seen you this week with the two of us so busy.”  
  
“Hmm, you’re right.” Peter smiled softly, catching her mouth in a gentle, chaste kiss, and Claire fell into the soft contact, cupping his face and tilting back his head in an effort to deepen it. Peter suddenly yelped and broke the kiss, his face twisting into a pained expression as he rubbed his neck.  
  
Claire pulled back and frowned, contrition and concern evident in her face. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”  
  
Peter winced, allowing his head to slump back against the sofa cushion, grunting as he pulled the abused muscles in his neck. “I’m fine, just sore.”  
  
Claire tilted her head curiously. “Yeah? How come?”  
  
“Supply stocking.”  
  
“Are you serious? Heavy lifting?”  
  
“Three hours straight.”  
  
Claire grimaced, sympathetic with understanding. Healing powers aside, she knew Peter was still prone to wearing himself out to a degree, especially after working endless night shifts in a row, and then spending another stocking supply closets. “They abuse you interns, don’t they?” she concluded.  
  
“Pretty much.”  
  
“Poor man.”  
  
Claire smiled slightly, pressing a kiss to the curve of his neck, sighing softly as she rested his head against his shoulder. Peter slipped his arms around her, holding her close as they sat together quietly, savoring their proximity.  
  
“Listen, Claire…”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I talked to Nathan yesterday.”  
  
“What about?”  
  
“He wants us to participate in Mohinder’s research.”  
  
“Really?” Claire cocked an eyebrow, intrigued, “What’s in it for Nathan?”  
  
“You know your father. No one really knows where his motives lie.”  
  
Claire shrugged, leaning in to press a kiss to his mouth, playing with the hair at the nape of Peter’s neck. “What could we get out of seeing Dr. Suresh again? He already did basic analysis on each of us years ago. I really don’t need to hear more about my potential to live forever.”  
  
“Hmm,” Peter gazed down at her through half-lidded eyes, leaning further into her touch, “Maybe we should anyway? I don’t see what it would hurt. Something might have changed.”  
  
“Oh? What could be different then?”  
  
“Just…different…” Anything further Peter had to say was cut off as he yawned, rather loudly, his body slumping back against the couch as he tiredly rubbed his eyes.  
Claire smiled quietly. “Tired?”  
  
“Yes. I worked a god-awful shift for Dr. Jackson last night. Nine to two.”  
  
“God. Which one’s Jackson?”   
  
“The night shift attending.”  
  
Claire’s lips pursed, his brow furrowing with a worried expression. “And how many of these shifts have you worked in a row?”  
  
Peter smiled wanly. “Three?”  
  
“Peter!”  
  
Peter winced; not arguing as Claire gently but firmly grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet, guiding him down the hallway toward his bedroom. “Honestly! You’re a grown man, Peter; you ought to be taking better care of yourself than this.”  
  
“Calm down, sweetheart. Tonight’s my last night, then I go back to the day shift.”  
  
Claire glared at him once and Heero decided it was better to just shut up completely.  
With her free arm, the young woman gesticulated in an agitated manner as she continued to ramble on about the merits of sleep and living healthy. Peter could not stop a light smile as he found himself being stripped of belt and collared shirt, watch and cell phone, then being tucked in to his bed.   
  
Claire was mumbling to herself through the whole process, oddly ornery, and when she leaned in to kiss his forehead as if her lover was still a child, an irked Peter grabbed her arm and pulled her down toward him.  
  
“Peter!” Claire exclaimed, landing with an audible ‘umph!’ at Peter’s side on the bed, but he only smiled innocently, slipping an arm around Claire’s waist to pull her closer.  
  
“Stay with me.”  
  
Claire cocked her head in surprise, glancing at the man thoughtfully. “You want me to?”  
  
“Hmm-mm.”  
  
With a soft sigh, Claire nodded with compliance, resting her head against Peter’s shoulder as she nestled closer to the warmth of him. Peter kissed the top of his head, chuckling as she wrinkled her nose and swatted at him, pouting childishly even as she protested.  
  
“Don’t do that! I’m not a kid!”  
  
“Oh? And you weren’t just tucking me in like I was five?”  
  
Claire narrowed her eyes, burrowing closer to Peter’s chest to hide her face from view. “Alright, alright, point taken.”  
  
Peter smiled and settled his head back against the pillow, absently fiddling with her long hair. “You’re good for me, Claire Petrelli, you know that?”  
  
Claire rolled her eyes. “About as good for you as a heart attack.”  
  
“No, I mean,” and he tilted up Claire’s chin to look at him, his dark eyes serious, “I’ve never felt as light-hearted as I am with you. That’s what you’ve changed in me.”  
  
Claire smiled, nuzzling against Peter’s shoulder. “Yeah, well, you were too uptight anyway. Someone needed to loosen you up.”  
  
A comfortable silence fell between them, and before they knew it, both had fallen victim to a deep, quiet slumber.  
  
+++  
  
Claire sat quietly in Mohinder Suresh’s apartment the next day, smiling gratefully up at Peter as he presented her with a small glass of orange juice Mohinder had insisted upon, sitting down beside her to slowly sip from his own cup.   
  
They had arrived late that afternoon after Claire made sure Peter spent the morning and early afternoon napping, discovering Mohinder deep in his ever-going research about the evolution of the abilities of their little group of misfits.   
  
But took them by surprise, however, was his new prospect of finding a possibility of a cure, in cases of possible unstable powers like Peter’s had once been.   
  
Claire found herself strangely touched by Mohinder informing them of the reasoning behind Nathan’s motivations this time around, ever-present concern over the possible instability of Peter’s mimic.   
  
It was nice to hear once and a while that her bio-dad actually had a heart. The look of surprised pleasure in Peter’s expression made it obvious he was thinking along the same sentiment.   
  
So, they each allotted time to Mohinder to discuss any possible changes to their powers, gave an amble blood sample each for the geneticist’s research. The doctor in the opposite room, Claire took the chance to lean closer to the man beside her, savoring his proximity as she rested her head against his shoulder, feeling him press a kiss to her forehead in return.   
  
They’d had each other’s company for nearly an entire day, and still she craved the chance to be close to him, to feel him near beyond what propriety allowed him. That was one stipulating problem lingering in their affair…the need to have one another more often than the clandestine nature of their relationship could allow. It was frustration, straining, and above all, agonizingly hurtful.   
  
“Papa, I’m home!!”  
  
The sudden reverberation sounding through the apartment, followed by the sound of a door slamming shut. The couple sprang apart from one another just in time for fifteen-year-old Molly Walker-Suresh to come bounding into the room, peering at them curiously as a tall young man followed at her side, giving equal scrutiny.   
  
“Uncle Peter, Claire…what are you guys doing here?”   
  
Peter smiled at the girl as she came to him, holding out his arms for a hug, Claire grinning fondly as she watched the two of them together.   
  
She often had to wonder, in times like this, watching a young girl Peter was as equally protective and fond of as the rest of her ‘uncles’, if being with her rendered Peter’s future as only being an uncle figure- for in his life, both his nephews, Molly and Micah seemed to have the same standing in Peter’s ever-spanning heart.   
  
A man like Peter was destined to be a father, and a good one at that, but did his feeling for her kill that possibility?  
  
Her thoughts were broken when Molly stepped toward her to share another exuberant embrace, one she returned with equal enthusiasm. Mohinder’s adoptive daughter had a certain niche in her heart as well.   
  
Said adoptive father strolled into the room just as Peter was answering Molly’s question with a quite explanation about helping out her father’s research, and he looked up from the paperwork in his hand, smiling. “Molly, how was school?”  
  
“It was alright. Shane here,” pointing to the silent man behind her, “picked me up. We went out for ice cream.”  
  
“I hope that’s alright, Dr. Suresh,” the young man said, his voice a smooth tenor, an lilting Irish accent Claire found especially endearing, “Molly was telling me about the A she got on her bio exam. I thought we should celebrate.”  
  
“No, that’s quite alright, Shane. And Molly dear, that’s wonderful to hear. I told you my being a science nerd wasn’t all bad.”  
  
His daughter responded with a roll of her eyes, but a smile warm enough to speak of her affection for the older man. Catching Peter and Claire’s quizzical expression, Mohinder was quick to introduce the stranger.   
  
“Ah, excuse me. Where are my manners? This is my new assistant, Shane Fitzpatrick. He was a genetics major in Dublin, and he came to New York to study with me. Shane, this is Peter and Claire Petrelli. I’m sure I’ve told you about them. These two have quite the remarkable abilities.”  
  
Peter shook his hand genially, but the man’s attention was focused on Claire. Claire watched him closely, taking in the boyishly handsome face, tousled brown hair and hazel eyes seeming indecisive between shades of green and blue. He was a handsome man, twenty-four at the most, tall and broad-shouldered with an athletic appeal. He was an attractive man, no doubt about that, but certainly no Peter.   
  
The Irishman shook Claire’s hand, his palm warm around hers and lingering longer than necessary as his eyes raked over her with interest. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you from Dr. Suresh.”  
  
Mohinder nodded, not noticing the way Peter was bristling at Claire’s side at Shane’s flirtation. Claire laid a restraining hand against his arm, Shane looking at him smugly and Molly shooting the curious glances. “Shane has an ability himself. Quite a spectacle, it is.”  
  
Claire cocked her head curiously, her eyes trained on the young Irishman, “And what would that be?”  
  
Shane’s returning smile was charming, Claire had to admit, enigmatic in its quality, “What’s life without a bit of mystery, eh?”  
  
+++  
  
Walking out of the apartment after saying their goodbyes, Claire watched amusedly as Peter scowled at random passing objects, grumbling incoherently under his breath. She caught the swinging hand between them, pressed a kiss to his knuckles and shook her head as he looked at her.   
  
“Don’t tell me you’re actually jealous, lover?”  
  
“You’re a beautiful woman, Claire. I think I have a right to be.”  
  
She rolled her eyes but smiled, drawing his head down into a kiss that reminded just who it was that she belonged to. Watching his eyes close with languid satisfaction as she drew away from him, she giggled softly, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth.   
  
“Get us a cab, Peter. I took a day off to be with you. Let’s not let it go to waste.”  
  
He wrapped an arm around her waist, drew her to him, and kissed her sweetly as he flagged down a cabbie on the busy city street.   
  
A couple of floors above them, Shane Fitzpatrick scrutinized the couple from his window vantage point, watching them interactions with an indiscernible expression. Turning back to regard his occupied employer, he mulled things over in his head, giving voice to some of his thoughts, “So what’s the story behind them, Dr. Suresh, they married?”  
  
Mohinder blinked in surprise, “Peter and Claire? God no.”  
  
“But they have the same last name…”  
  
“They’re related. I know they don’t look it with their age, but they’re uncle and niece. Peter is Claire’s father’s younger brother.”  
  
Shane’s eyebrows shot up with incredulous surprise, “Related? With those kinds of sparks?”  
  
At Mohinder’s befuddled expression, Shane shook his head, dismissing the topic as he turned back to the window.   
  
“Interesting,” he murmured to himself, his voice inaudible to Mohinder’s hearing, “Interesting indeed.”

 

 


	15. Show and Tell

The weather was as dark and miserable as it had been for most of the winter, the skies clouded with an endless, monotonous gray, any definite traces of sunlight immediately destroyed by the impenetrable shadows and gloom surrounding the city sky-scape.

The air was stark and frigid, the shock of the cold not abnormal for the season. A wicked wind whipped through the streets, resembling a prowler who sought to take his next victim by surprise, robbing passersby of warmth and breath.

Peter Petrelli became one of those unfortunate victims, cursing bitterly under his breath as he pulled his coat tighter around himself against the sudden chill.

He found himself feeling strangely out of place; in way he had not felt before in the city of his birth. He supposed it was only natural that he felt so uncomfortable, wandering through the nearly empty boulevards in the middle of a work day.

The khakis and lab-coat that had become as familiar as a second skin to him were traded in for faded black jeans and a tee-shirt bearing the Columbia emblem- a golden empirical crown, outlined in a circle of royal blue against the black of his shirt- finished off by a pair of battered sneakers and the old bomber jacket pulled taut across his shoulders.

Even as the morning began to fade into the later hours of the early afternoon, the chill in the air did not lessen in the slightest, nor did the sky clear in any fashion to allow the much longed for sunlight to grace the poor earth with any sort of warmth.

Finally feeling the effects on his body from hours of endless wandering, Peter pulled his jacket tighter around his frame as he sought refuge from the biting cold.

He ducked into the nearest building without paying any mind to the name on the sign above, the front door chiming in a cheerful theme that sounded suspiciously like the refrain to an old Elvis Presley song. He blinked in surprise, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped further inside to inspect his new surroundings.

He found himself in a small café, a tastefully decorated place consisting of little more than a dozen or so round tables with chairs, a front counter and an antique pinball machine in the corner.

A single set of swinging doors was found behind the counter, most likely leading back into the kitchens. The room was warm- pleasantly so- and enveloped by the welcome heat, he slipped off his jacket, finding it strange that he would bare his arms in such beastly weather.

He smiled for the hostess who offered him a seat near the window, a vantage view to watch the snow falling as a predicted storm began to take form in the skies above. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, feeling too light-hearted not to grin boyishly as he placed his order with his waitress.

The weather, the cold, the snow- all of it, he couldn’t care less, lest it spoil the euphoria of his mood. He and Claire’s affair had hit its peak, the highest height of its serenity, that blissful harmony they established after getting over the guilt and the hesitation at the beginning.

Ironically, they’d never really left that honeymoon stage. He could handle having been made into the sap he was proving himself to be, Claire having him more than happily wrapped around her little finger, as long as he didn’t have to see it end. He didn’t want to think about that inevitable conclusion.

It was a surreal feeling enveloping him, lifting his heart and easing his mind in this make-shift reality they had formed for themselves, the blissful haven that transcended the world of moral limitations.

He found himself on that abnormal cloud nine, knowing that he could pretend he could keep his little utopia- their personal Elysium, knowing they were damned from the beginning from passing the higher pearly gates. There was no rapture for a sinner of his magnitude, and repentance was only an option in case of regret- and Peter knew by far he had absolutely no regrets.

He exhaled sharply, slowly shaking his head to dispel the strange thoughts from his head- after-effects of Catholic upbringing, he supposed.

He smiled softly to himself, letting his head rest against the elbow propped on the edge of the table. He absently fiddled with the small chain latched to his pocket, bringing the object there into the open air to rise to his eye-level.

Extraordinarily good quality, the gold pocket-watch had been Claire’s Christmas present to him, accompanied by a teasing comment about him being oddly old-fashioned like that was so like him. He’d been fascinated by the one his father carried when he was a boy, and every time he heard the quick jingle of the small chain at his side, he couldn’t help but smile at little.

Christmas Eve and day were spend exclusively with the family, but they spend the twenty-sixth celebrating together, exchanging gifts, a warm meal provided kindly by a neighbor woman of Peter’s who offered him the help after hearing his disappointment of lack of culinary finesse for a holiday dinner.

The weekend they had both had off and they savored it, spending a great deal of the next two days sleeping and making love, watching old movies and raiding Peter’s fridge to the bare essentials in an effort not to have to return to the real world. Peter had to admit, it was the best Christmas he had ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

“Peter!”

His head turned into the direction of the familiar voice, offering a crooked smile to the approaching form of Matt. “Hey, man. Wanna join me?”

A small smile curved the other man’s lips, as he obligingly took a seat across from Peter. “What brings you out on a day like this? It’s hell out there.” the officer asked lightly.

Peter grinned cheekily, “I could ask you the same thing,” came his teasing response as the waitress from before returned to the table, delivering a steaming mug in front of him.  “All that parenting finally getting to you, Officer Parkman?”

He politely thanked the girl, putting on his best charm as he smiled, his mouth curling into an open, warm gesture. “Could I get a coffee for my friend here? Cream and two sugars, I believe.”

As the girl nodded and returned his smile, leaving them to put in the order, Matt shot a quizzical look to his friend. “You remember how I take my coffee?”

Peter shrugged, turning his eyes away to concentrate once more on the watch in his hand. “I remember a lot of things.” He sniffed at his cup, taking a cautious sip of what proved to be hot chocolate.

It was good, more than good, the flavor warm and rich. Claire’s influence again; she abhorred coffee, thought tea too bland and had a certain fondness for cocoa on mornings she didn’t have to rush away from his apartment to get to work. He’d have to remember to take her here for breakfast some time.

They sat in quiet for a few moments, Peter in day-dreaming thought, Matt in Peter-centered contemplation. He thanked the waitress as she brought his coffee, and he leaned back in his seat as he took a deep drink, rolling off his tongue the familiar bittersweet taste laced with caffeine. As he sipped the mug, he leaned in to catch a closer look of what his friend was studying. His eyebrows arched in surprise. “That’s mighty fine. Where’d you get it?”

“Christmas present.”

“Lady-friend?”

Peter’s smile was enigmatic as he raised his mug back to his lips, “Something like that.”

“Can I see?”

Peter’s expression clouded over, inexplicably shuttered as he hesitated, unable to find reason to refuse as he reluctantly handed over the watch. Matt held the accessory delicately, shaking off the best he could the sense of foreboding rising up inside him at the sudden change in Peter’s demeanor.

Puzzling, he admired the craftwork of Peter’s gift, but as he popped open the lid, he soon found the reason behind Peter’s apprehension, revealed in the inscription etched opposite the clock face.

_To my hero, my best friend, and my heart._

~ _My love forever,_

_Your sweetheart_

Matt froze- his mind oddly numb as he stared at the words…familiar words.

_The sound of laughter broke through the air: clear, ringing, definitively female, followed a few moments later by deep, rich reverberation of a male voice, a murmur and a chuckle, echoing with more of the light, carefree giggling._

_Matt exchanged baffled looks with the others in his company, most of their small group having been led into the Petrelli home by Nathan, in hopes of discussing the aftermath of the near-explosion. The newly elected Congressman, a bemused expression crossing his stern face, stared ahead around the corner, and Matt followed suit, craning his head to see the source of the noise._

_In the living room, two figures were lying on the couch, their identities unmistakable, Peter Petrelli  with his flopping blacking hair, hiding his eyes but doing nothing to obscure the grin warming his features, Claire Bennet with her long, trailing locks of golden-blonde hair draped over the arm of the couch._

_“Peter!” came the exclamation, followed by more giggling and a widening to Peter’s boyish grin._

_Her clothes, a light blouse and dark skirt, were riding up even further as she struggled under Peter, but neither seemed to notice as he kept her pinned beneath his body, mercilessly digging his fingers into ribs as he tickled her._

_Claire writhed and squirmed beneath him, dragging her nails down his neck, tugging at his hair, threatening him between bouts of laughter, but still he did not let her go. “Peter, c’mon, you’re playing dirty.”_

_“Nah-uh. Not until you say uncle.”_

_“Whatever you say, Uncle Peter,” Claire mocked, watching Peter making face at the unwanted address, taking advantage of his inattention._

_Long, slender, and indecently bare legs locked around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back as she used her new hold on him as leverage, arching up against him in an attempt to throw him off._

_He barely budged, but he did pause, a strangled sound escaping his throat, his hands dropping to either side of them, sinking into the sofa cushions, as he adjusted to the new position, his body pressing intimately close to Claire’s as he gazed down at her, his smile gone and the room quiet but for the sound of their ragged breathing._

_Peter squirmed uncomfortably and released his hold on her, allowing her to slip out from beneath him, sticking her tongue out in his direction as she sat up, smoothing out her ruffled hair, “Evil man. What happened to my white knight?”_

_“His shining armor’s been corrupted.” He grinned crookedly, slipping an arm around her shoulders. Claire leaned against his side, fitting to him so seamlessly it was more than natural._

_“Embracing your darker side, then? How very Star Wars of you,” she remarked dryly._

_“C’mon now,” he teased, “Negative emotion is the way to the dark side. I’ll just have to protect you from the bad me.”_

_“My hero.”_

_“Don’t you forget it.”_

_“You are so immature.”_

_“Says the only teenager in the room.”_

_She rolled her eyes, pointedly prodding him in the side, “Weirdo. You’re lucky I like you.”_

_“Sweetheart, you hear me arguing with the sentiment?”_

_The conversation would have continued if not for Nathan suddenly regaining his composure, his reprimanding voice filling the corridor, “Peter, what nonsense are you tangling my daughter up in now? Don’t you ever grow up?”_

_Peter winced at the insult, and he shifted, but did not retreat from his proximity to Claire. Claire made no motion to move aside either, though she averted her eyes as her father and visitors stepped into the room._

_“Sorry, Nathan. I forgot the rest of us were supposed to be as one-dimensional as you insist on being.”_

_Nathan glared at his brother, stepping quickly into leader role as everyone took their seats, offered quick greetings to Peter and Claire and they got down to business._

Matt’s eyes closed wearily, but he forced himself to work out the words he’d spent months keeping to himself.

“Peter…we have to talk.”

 


	16. Destination Nowhere

“It wasn’t a coincidence we ran into each other today, Pete. I asked Molly to track you for me. I needed to talk to you.”  
  
With a sense of foreboding bearing down on him, Peter could only numbly nod as the other man began to speak. And suddenly, it was everything his nightmares were made of coming true in reality.   
  
+++  
  
“Papa! I’m going to meet Micah now!”  
  
“Be back by seven,” came the muffled reply from the other room, Mohinder preoccupied in his studies as usual, “I’ll have dinner done.”  
  
“No takeout,” his daughter called back, “Have Shane make something. At least he doesn’t burn water.”  
  
The responding grumble from the scientist was too low to be coherent.   
  
Molly rolled her eyes as she slipped into her coat, sharing a conspiring smile with Claire as she said her goodbyes and slipped out the door. Claire shook her head silently, watching the goings-on with amusement as she leaned her hip against Mohinder’s desk, waiting on the geneticist to reemerge.   
  
Coming home from work that afternoon, intent on meeting Peter on his day off, a sudden call to her cell had deterred Claire Petrelli from her original plans. So, for the second time in as many months, she found herself back in the Suresh-Walker-Fitzpatrick (temporarily) residence for a reason besides a social call. So there she found herself, unable to get a hold of her lover anyway, awaiting whatever news it was that Mohinder had for her.   
  
“Sweet lord, that man’s one-track-minded. Won’t even give a body a rest.”  
  
Claire smiled at the tall man who came to stand at her side, “Poor baby. The good doctor giving you a hard time?”  
  
“The man’s completely off his nut. If I have to look into one more bloody microscope, I reckon my eyes might crack.”  
  
Claire laughed lightly, casting him a sidelong look.   
  
He cracked a crooked grin, “And m’day’s not complete without seeing your lovely face, Mistress Petrelli. How are you this fine afternoon?”  
  
“Feeling very much hit on,” she replied dryly.   
  
He placed a hand over his heart, perfecting a mock wounded pose, “Come on now, luv. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not that much of a wanker.”  
  
She leaned forward a bit, a teasing grin playing on her lips, “And I was just kidding. If you thought with the head above your waistline, boyo,” her use of his own terminology took him by surprise, causing him to smile lightly, “Maybe you would have caught on to that.”  
  
He chuckled, “You really know how to keep a lad on his toes, don’t you, luv?”  
  
“So I’ve been told.”  
  
“I have a proposition for you, then.”  
  
“I’m all ears.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure I’m not too bad a git, and I hear you don’t have a fella, so I was wondering if you’d consider going out with me for a night. Just friendly, if you like. We could have supper or catch the pictures.”  
  
“Tell you what, I’ll go if you finally tell me that power of yours.”  
  
“Can’t do that now, luv. If my charming good looks and personality can’t hook you, maybe the mystery can.”  
  
He winked at her and Claire rolled her eyes, but surprisingly, found herself smiling anyway.   
  
+++  
  
“I-I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Don’t play dumb, Peter. That’s the same act I’ve been trying to pull for months, pretending I haven’t heard the things I heard, or seen the way you act together. Dammit, Pete, at least be man enough to not lie to my face.”  
  
“…how long…?”  
  
“How long what?”  
  
“How long have you known?”  
  
“Since Claire’s graduation.”  
  
Six months. Six months. Six damned months he was all the stupider. Peter buried his head in his hands, his brain still struggling to process the new information.   
  
“Why didn’t you say anything?”  
  
“Dammit, Peter. You think this has been easy for me? I’ve been trying so hard to understand whatever in the hell would even compel you to cross that line, but I’m still grappling for an explanation. What the hell were you thinking, man?”  
  
“I wasn’t.”  
  
“I’ve been hoping, praying, begging even, that this thing would cool down. But it hasn’t, has it? Not in the least.”  
  
Peter didn’t answer.   
  
“Shit, man. I knew you two were close, Pete. Everybody knows that. The moment I met you two, that girl didn’t look at you like a relative, and it’s not like you grew up like that. So I can’t even summon up disgust. But hell, Petrelli, you have any idea how dangerous this is? Not to mention illegal?”  
  
Peter sharply exhaled, gazing at Matt with pained eyes, “I know, Matt, God, I know all that. You think this is easy? You think we haven’t tried a hundred times to stop?”  
  
“It has to. You know it has to.”  
  
“It’s not that easy,” and Matt’s expression softened as he took in the near-pleading tone to Peter’s voice, “I’m not strong enough, Matt. I’ve never been strong enough to give her up.”  
  
“I can’t let you keep doing this, Pete,” came Matt’s solemn reply, “Not to sound like a complete pansy, but you mean a lot to me, man. And I adore Claire. You’re family…I’d never want to hurt my family…”  
  
“But…”  
  
“….but…if this doesn’t end, Pete…it’ll destroy you both. Either you back off, or I’ll have to go to Nathan. You let that be the option, it’ll tear your family apart, man. And Claire.”  
  
And the inadvertent reminder of everything Claire put at risk for the sake of loving him, Peter was not sure his heart could sink any lower than it already had.   
  
+++  
  
“So what’s this about, Mohinder? Not that I’m not happy to visit, but it sounded important over the phone.”  
  
The scientist was serious as he glanced up at her over the glasses perched at his nose, nodding solemnly, “Yes. You remember, of course, the blood samples you and Peter gave two weeks ago?”  
  
“How could I forget? You know how much I hate needles.”  
  
“That I know. Your dear uncle seems to be the only one capable of keeping you from squirming.”  
  
Catching herself from wincing at the mention of her relation to Peter, she returned his smile with as much good nature as she could muster, “Exactly. So what is it?”  
  
“I discovered…a…anomaly…I suppose, for lack of a better term, in some of the blood-work.”  
  
“A-anomaly? What do you mean? Who is it?”  
  
“…It’s Peter…”  
  
“Peter?!!!!” with the new revelation, the cold claws of fear rising in her throat, the pitch of panic rising in her voice with every question she shot out, “What about him? Is something wrong? Is this thing you found dangerous to him?”  
  
“No, no! Nothing like that,” Mohinder was quick to reassure, smiling gently in an effort to quell some of the young woman’s obvious distress, “It’s something in his genetic code that puzzles me. I’d like to be able to reanalyze my findings, but I need to new comparative samples just to double-check I wasn’t missing something.”  
  
Relief and puzzlement colored Claire’s expression and she sighed softly, “What does all this have to do with me?”  
  
“You’re the comparative sample. The paternal allele you inherited from your father is exactly what I need.”  
  
“No problem, but wouldn’t it make more sense to go to Nathan directly?”  
  
“It would,” a wan smile, “But the Congressman made it quite clear his time was much more valuable.”  
  
Claire rolled her eyes, sighing with resigned exasperation. As much as she loved Nathan- he was her father, after all- she wasn’t blind to how self-involved the man was capable of being.   
  
“So you need more blood to compare to Peter’s?”  
  
“That’s the gist of it, my dear.”  
  
Claire smiled weakly, rolling up her sleeve as she approached Mohinder’s work area, “Where do you want me?”  
  
She had walked through fire, jumped off buildings, been pierced through the back of her head, been shot, stabbed and multiple other things she didn’t like to recall. The least she could do was handle a needle for the man she loved.   
  
Besides, he could always make it up to her later.   
  
The thought brought an honest smile to her face, and though there was predictably no pain as the needle penetrated her flesh, her attention was completely elsewhere in anticipation of seeing Peter that night.   
  
+++  
  
Six months. Shit.   
  
Six fucking months. Far beyond shit. To borrow one of Claude’s favorite choice phrases…  
  
Bloody. Fucking. Hell.   
  
“…he knows…” the choked, hoarse whisper was more a statement than a question, confirming every worst fear they had ever harbored, everything they already both knew was inevitable.   
  
His numb nod was his only response as he tipped his head back and took another deep draught from the glass in his hand. Her pale, stricken face seemed almost iridescent in the faint candlelight, the only illumination he had allowed into the room.   
  
Her eyes drilled into him, stealing right into his very soul he was sure, and her voice was barely audible as she spoke, “I never took you for a scotch type of man.”  
  
“I’m not. It was the hardest thing Nathan had in his cabinet.”  
  
“Don’t you think he’ll notice you keep stealing his liquor?”  
  
“You know your father,” he replied, his voice darker than she’d heard in a long while, “He’s oblivious to everything but himself.”  
  
She glanced at him wryly, “And drinking’s your answer?”  
  
“…it’s not like I’ll feel it in the morning…I have too much of you in me for that…”  
  
There was something bitter in his tone but she did not flinch. She stood up, took the alcohol from his unresisting fingers and set it on the table beside him. His eyes followed her movements, dark and hazy. “Don’t do this to yourself again, Peter. It was bad enough watching it the first time.”  
  
His swarthy face darkened at the inadvertent reminder, seven years prior as he tried so desperately to drown away the guilt of their deceptive first night together. She reached out, touching her fingers to his cheek, and Peter leaned into the touch, unable to resist the urge.   
  
“We need to cool down, Claire. Matt’s not the only one asking questions.”  
  
“…who…?”  
  
“Nathan.”  
  
She visibly blanched, “Oh, shit.” Peter nodded; that was exactly his personal trail of thoughts.   
  
“Neither of us have dated in a long time, sweetheart. He’s already resigned to be being a reclusive bachelor, but you…you’re young, beautiful…he’ll only accept that being tied to your career excuse for so long.”  
  
“So what are you saying?”  
  
“I’m saying I need to back off.”  
  
“You want me to see someone?”  
  
He forced out a harsh laugh, humorless and dark, “What I want and what needs to be done are two completely different matters.”  
  
She pulled her hand away, her gaze visibly wounded, “I can’t believe this bullshit can actually come out of your mouth, Peter. Where’s the man who told me he’d never let me go, that he’d fight to keep me, everyone else be damned?”  
  
“He’s a damned fool not to think of everything we risk to lose.”  
  
“Bastard,” the bitter words were barely spoken as she sought to recoil from him, but he grabbed her arm, pulling her slim form down into his lap. He leaned close, the smell of the scotch palpable on his breath.   
  
“…you’ll lose your family, Claire, and I can’t do that to you. I’m not naïve enough to make me your only choice. There’s too much at risk, sweetheart, and I’ll be damned if I let it happen. I’d rather be a selfish bastard than hurt you like that…”  
  
“Dammit, Peter. You’re already hurting me!”  
  
He sighed, shoulders slumping visibly as he rested his forehead against hers, “It’s the way it has to be. You know that.”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
“You will, eventually.”  
  
Feeling the burn of tears in her eyes, she linked her arms around his neck, settling herself more comfortably in his lap. The taste of the liquor against his mouth was both rich and bitter, mixing in her senses with that balmy heat of want enveloping and the heady scent of him as his arms encircled her, pulling her all that much closer.   
  
Somehow, she didn’t think it could ever be close enough.

 


	17. A Steady Fall

“Claire honey, you won’t believe this!”  
  
Claire blinked in surprise at the sudden proclamation as she walked into the news room, her eyes fixing on the tall, buxom brunette known for flamboyancy, serving as the origin of the sound, “Marissa, what’s-“  
  
Marissa grinned slyly as she whirled around to face the blonde, gesturing excitedly toward Claire’s desk, “Either someone’s getting lucky, or you’ve got a persistent admirer.”  
  
Claire followed her co-worker’s hands, her gaze settling on two flower bouquets sitting conspicuously on her desk. Her expression clouded over with bemusement as she finished crossing the room, reaching for the first arrangement.   
  
The first was an arrangement of lilacs and baby’s breath, well put-together and flattering to the eyes. The card was good-quality stationary, the words written with a stylish, masculine flourish,   
  
_‘Claire, I had a good time at lunch. Here’s to hoping we can do it again. Dinner on Friday?  
  
–Shane 555-6478’_  
  
Sarah, a mother, seasoned reporter and credited with bringing an element of level-headedness to their team, glanced curiously over her shoulder, “New guy?”  
  
Claire shrugged, her lips pursing with her disconcertion as she set the card back down against the desktop. “Dunno yet.”  
  
“Is the other one from the same fellow?” Marissa piped up from her cubicle, her head still cocked distractedly in Claire’s direction, “Seems like over-kill to me.”  
  
“Give the girl a chance to get to it,” Cheyenne, a relative newbie of three years and the only other woman on their floor, retorted to her partner as she set a large stack of paperwork on Marissa’s desk, who regarded them mournfully, “You’re passed your deadline anyway.”  
  
While Marissa pouted and petulantly turned her attention to the work at hand, Claire peered down at the slip of paper tucked neatly in the second bouquet, a softly subtle combination of cala and pink lilies, the differing tones complimentary rather than clashing. She could not help herself as an inkling of suspicion filled her mind, her traitorous heart picking up in rhythm even as she recognized her favorite flower…and the handwriting denoted against the modest signature.   
  
_‘Something beautiful to match that smile. And my hope that it starts appearing more often.  
  
P.’  
_  
A soft smile graced her countenance, her fingers slowly tracing over the familiar script, small and almost roughly scrawled, such a contrast to the gentle quality of his persona. She bent her head down, intent on taking in the scent of the flowers. The scent was nostalgic, sweet and subtle.   
  
“Look at that, she’s definitely smiling at this one,” came more commentary from her still observing co-workers, this time from Sarah.   
  
“Juggling more than one beau, Petrelli?” Marissa inquired wryly.   
  
Claire blushed, averting her eyes to Cheyenne instead, the only one who seemed fairly neutral to the matter. The other woman watched her thoughtfully, “Someone else?”  
  
As Claire nodded, Cheyenne favored her with a slow, good-natured grin, “Somebody important,” she concluded.   
  
Claire caressed the smooth petals of a blossom almost reverently, a sad smile curving her mouth as she sat down into her chair, “Yeah. Definitely someone important.”  
  
She turned away, grateful for the surrounding walls of her cubicle and the sudden inattention of the others.   
  
She would never live it down if they saw her cry.   
  
+++  
  
It was the New Year that forced them back together; their time and their obligations split in a prime example of the different facets to their lives, the different roles and skins they stepped into. Four days since Peter’s decision and the wounds were more than raw; Claire wondered if fate was being intentionally cruel or if the oppressive expectation of their acting abilities were still existent.   
  
Their performance hadn’t exactly been up to par, thus their existent situation, but even as her heart ached at the prospect of looking into that handsome face, those beautiful eyes that captured her so completely from the beginning, she found herself slipping back into a familiar mask.   
  
A captive heart was something to keep below the surface; they’d played these games too long not to know how to step into the skin of a thespian, and let the world be their masquerading stage.   
  
New Year’s Eve was the real obligation, to attend a fundraiser event Nathan was fundraising. Her bio-father demanded all familial attendance, no exclusions. The perfect publicity opportunity Claire was sure; the daughter, journalist prestigious enough for the Times, the brother, first-year resident physician at Mount Sinai, the sons, two strapping teenage boys to carry on his name.   
  
She stepped into her role as fluidly as breathing, making with the pretty dress and perpetual smiles, making nice for the pompous company and the ever-present cameras. He looked good, playing pretend just as naturally as her, elegant in his custom-fitted tuxedo and clean-cut look, Claire herself feeling more like a child playing dress-up than a daughter of “respectable” society as they gathered for pictures.   
  
They stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and even as Claire smiled obediently, she refused to meet his eyes, to acknowledge his presence. Every time his hand brushed over hers, she ignored that jolt of electricity, that familiar excitement.   
  
By the end of the evening, as they faced the snap and the click and the flash of countless cameras, their fingers entwined and stayed, the warmth of his calloused palm pressed to hers a slow, agonizing burn.   
  
+++  
  
It was after two when they finally made their escape, Nathan’s firm insistence they stay at the family home due to the late hour that had their stumbling into the manor in the twilight, grumbling and murmuring among themselves as they assembled into the living room.   
  
Claire stepped out of her heels with a groan, her sentiments echoed by Heidi, who winced and cast off her flats, sitting next to her groggy boys on the couch. Nathan collapsed into his favorite armchair, pulling at his tie and kicking up his feet with a tired groan, “God, it feels like these things never stop.”  
  
“Then maybe you shouldn’t insist on torturing the rest of us while you’re at it,” Peter remarked dryly as he combed a hand through his hair, tousling the previously slicked-back look. Raven-black fell precariously into his eyes, reminding her warmly more of her Peter, and not the icon of happy family Nathan used him as.   
  
Nathan opened his mouth to retort, face twisted into a scowl when one of the boys interrupted, thirteen-year-old Monty, suddenly piped up, “Mom, I’m hungry.”  
  
“You ate at the fundraiser, dear.”  
  
Simon, growing into his father’s image at fourteen, strong-featured and alike in the frown that graced his face, was the next to comment, “The stuff they serve is rabbit food. Monty’s right, I’m starving.”  
  
Claire smiled at her half-brothers, stretching languidly, idly aware of Peter’s eyes following her actions, “The boys have a point, Heidi. No one really eats at those things. You think we could manage something?”  
  
“I could eat,” Peter told her with a quick grin, and for a moment, Claire found herself forgetting, returning his smile, “Nathan?”  
  
“Why not.”  
  
Her eyes searched the room for a phone, “Peter, you know any place that delivers this late? Maybe pizza or something.”  
  
Peter scratched at his chin, shrugging a shoulder, “Nathan won’t eat pizza. He has a habit of getting sauce on his collar and he thinks it makes him look undistinguished,” he glanced at his nephews, “He probably passed that opinion on to the boys. Sandwiches?”  
  
Nathan stared. Peter quirked an eyebrow in reply.   
  
“Pete…how on earth…?” came the bemused question, “…I never told anybody that…”  
  
Peter frowned, returned his brother’s confused expression and then he shrugged again. “Maybe I know you too well. S’not a big deal, Nathan. You’re a creature of habit anyway.”  
  
But as he turned his head away, Claire watched his eyes darken, troubled.   
  
+++  
  
The next afternoon found them in an entirely different atmosphere, pouring over a smorgasboard serving as lunch, their “merry band of misfit friends” as D.L. jokingly called them, the group sprawled out lazily around the living room of said man’s and Niki’s apartment.   
  
D.L was the first to speak up, “I hear you got stuck at another of big brother’s shindigs yesterday, Pete. How’d that go?”  
  
Peter shrugged, munching on a hot wing, “Boring as hell. Nathan’ll do anything for a photo shoot.”  
  
D.L. snorted and the men shared a knowing grin.   
  
“You went too, right, Claire?” Molly inquired, glancing at the other girl curiously, “Did you take Shane?”  
  
Heads popped up at the question, some curious and others merely inquisitive. Peter’s face was stoic; Matt’s unreadable. Claire smiled wanly, “What makes you think that, Molly?”  
  
“He said you guys have gone out a couple of times. Did you take him to the fundraiser?”  
  
“Nah. Shane was more inclined to go out drinking with his buddies than be my escort. I bet he’s still sleeping it off at the apartment, isn’t he?”  
  
Mohinder sighed, “He was sick the moment I started making coffee this morning. The boy looked absolutely green. Drinking habits aside,” he smiled, “He’s a nice young man. I’m glad to see you two hitting it off so well.”  
  
Beside her, Niki nudged Claire playfully, “Spill, girlie. You didn’t say a word about having a new guy. Cute? Funny? Nice ass?”  
  
“Mom!” came the mortifed exclamation from Micah, from where he sat between Molly and Isaac, his eyes straying between his food and his Gameboy.   
  
“Sorry, hon.”  
  
Claire smiled, “Cute. A bit charming, would flirt with anything that breathes. You haven’t met him yet? He’s Mohinder’s new assistant.”  
  
“Oh, the Irish hottie. Nice catch, darlin’. Men with accents are very melt-worthy.”  
  
Meeting Peter’s eye, Claire forced out a response, “We’ll see. He’s nice, I like him…but…”  
  
“Quasi-semi-sorta dating status…?” Niki commented helpfully.   
  
“Yeah.”  
  
A bit uncomfortable with all the girl-talk, Isaac cleared his throat, glancing pointedly at Mohinder, “I for one haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the boy. How’s it working out, Doc? Living with the kid, I mean.”  
  
Mohinder shrugged, humming thoughtfully. “It’s alright. He’s a good worker, if a little light-footed. It’s strange to adjust again, I suppose. Before Molly, I lived alone so long, and then it was just the two of us…”  
  
“He didn’t have as hard a time adjusting to Molly,” Peter told them matter-of-factly, his eyes focused on the potato salad he was devouring, “She reminded him so much of Chandi he felt that need to talk care of her. And eventually, she was too much like his daughter to feel any differently.”  
  
The room went silent, and Peter blinked rapidly, staring up at his friends with stark bewilderment painting his features.   
  
Startled, “Peter…” Claire began.   
  
Peter shook his head, “I’m sorry, Mohinder. I have no idea where any of that came from.”  
  
“It’s alright, Peter,” Mohinder forced a smile, “Micah, Molly was telling me you were starting a new project for the science fair…”  
  
+++  
  
“Claire.”  
  
Claire’s back stiffened in the doorway of the kitchen, her original destination of refilling her glass quickly forgotten as she recognized the voice. Venom colored hers as she responded, “If you have any sense left in that head of yours, Matt, you’ll know talking to me is probably the stupidest thing you could be doing right now.”  
  
“Claire…please. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”  
  
She side-stepped him, her drink forgotten as she made her way back toward the living room, finding herself face-to-face with Peter.   
  
She didn’t have time to react when a sudden statement filled the room, “Mom, its January now. Why didn’t you take down the mistletoe with the rest of the decorations?”  
  
Niki grinned slyly at her son, “Maybe I just wanted a chance to catch your father in the right mood.”  
  
“Ew!”  
  
“Is that it there, Aunt Niki? Above Peter and Claire?”  
  
Claire’s eyes widened at Molly’s innocent question, her heart threatening to stop.   
  
_Oh God. Oh God no. No. No. No._   
  
“It is.”  
  
No. No. Ye-  
  
“C’mon, Peter man. Lay one on her.”  
  
“Peter-kun, a kiss for Cheerleader Claire.”  
  
“Hai, hai.”  
  
Both stared at one another awkwardly, uncertain how to proceed.   
  
“Just a kiss, guys. No harm, no foul.”  
  
“Chaste as virgin,” Niki added cheekily, “No wrong in a little peck, Peter, Claire.”  
  
The moment Peter’s lips brushed over hers, Claire’s entire being began to quake.   
  
The contact was soft, barely tangible, his hand cupping her cheek and thumb softly stroking the skin. She placed a hand at the back of his neck, let her fingers lightly tangle in the fine hair of his nape, eyes fluttering closed as her lips moved beneath his, tentatively returning his kiss.   
  
He withdrew and she knew she was trembling, taking in a shuddering breath as she smoothed her hand down his neck, only withdrawing as she felt the muscles quiver beneath her touch, a shiver of her own want reflected in him.   
  
She dared to open her eyes and consequently met his, dark and unreadable, his nostrils flaring and his gaze glittering with barely unrestrained emotion as he turned away, running a hand fitfully through his hair. The room was smartly silent.   
  
Claire turned back, intent once more on fixing another drink, perhaps something a little stronger included this time. She brushed by Matt once more, ignoring his presence but for a brief meeting of their eyes.   
  
It was the first, and only moment, Matt had the poignant experience of watching a heart break, reflected in that sad, youthful gaze.


	18. Intervention Tactics

Room 421 was Peter Petrelli's last stop on his nightly rounds; the patient- in for the aftermath of a knee surgery- was more than familiar.  
  
“Peter…”  
  
He smiled warmly for his mother as her eyes fluttered open, slowly focusing on the figure of him standing at her beside. “Hi Mom. How’re you feeling…?”  
  
“Mmm…better if they didn’t insist on so many drugs. What time is it?”  
  
“It’s late, Mom. You should try to get some more sleep. Nathan will be here early in the morning to discharge you.”  
  
“I don’t see why he just can’t send Preston and the car. I’m not an invalid, dear boy.”  
  
“I know, Mom,” Peter responded soothingly as he adjusted her I.V. cords, “But busy schedule or not, he’s worried about you. I’d be the one coming myself if I wasn’t in danger of being dead on my feet.”  
  
Angela frowned at him, clucking her tongue disapprovingly, “Honestly, Peter. You work too hard. To pick a profession where you’re little more than a pack-animal, honestly. With those hands, you could have gone on to surgery.”  
  
Peter’s jaw tightened and he reflexively reminded himself not to comment, surrendering once again to a lifetime of opinionated family judgment. Watching his expression darken, Angela sighed to herself, reaching up a hand to lay her palm against Peter’s cheek. Though taken aback by the gesture, Peter accepted it, his eyes questioningly fixing on his mother.  
  
“You’ve always been such a good boy, Peter. I fear I’ve misjudged you, dear,” she sighed once more, “There’s something I think you ought to know.”  
  
+++  
  
A sudden knocking at his front door served as the most unusual three a.m. summons Mohinder Suresh had ever experienced, especially as he pulled on his glasses and shrugged onto his night-robe, swinging open the door to reveal Nathan Petrelli.  
  
“Congressman, to what do I owe this visit?”  
  
Nathan smiled, and even to Mohinder, the expression seemed rather fake and forced, “Doctor, I believe there’s something we need to discuss.”  
  
+++  
  
“What is it, Mom? What’s wrong?”  
  
Looking into gentle, beseeching eyes so hauntingly familiar, Angela shook her head slowly, giving her youngest a sad smile, “Never mind. It’s not important.”  
  
She glanced at the window, dark with the inky twilight, “Nathan told me about the Chicago offer. Have you decided?”  
  
“It’s a good position. I’d learn a lot.”  
  
“…so you’ve made your choice…”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She cocked her head, studying him, and then nodded reluctantly, “If you’ve made your decision, then don’t hesitate. Take the job. We’ll be here to welcome you back in the autumn.”  
  
“Thank you, Mom.”  
  
He bent down to kiss her cheek, receiving a gentle squeeze to the shoulder in response and a chiding, “Go home and get some sleep, darling boy. You look like the living dead.”  
  
Favoring his mother with a small smile, Peter obediently turned to leave, not having the courage to vocalize the fact that sleep had been a distant and unattainable memory for weeks- three months and two weeks since he and her grand-daughter had put a stop to their affair.  
  
+++  
  
“Real coffee!! Woman, you are a goddess!”  
  
Claire smiled as her boyfriend’s boisterous exclamation filled the room, placing the Styrofoam cup in his outstretched hand. A strong arm slipped around her shoulders and Claire leaned against his side, the action more comfortable- almost natural- in the near four months they had been seeing each other.  
  
Shane grinned down at her, ducking his head, and Claire warmly accepted his kiss. After they separated, she let her eyes stray around the room, puzzled at the lack of its usual occupants, “Where’s Molly?”  
  
“She’s out again with the Sanders kid,” Shane rolled his eyes, holding a hand over his head theatrically, “I’m telling you, luv, kid’s a smart one, but when it comes to lovely little Molly, the boyo’s dull-witted as mud.”  
  
Claire arched an eyebrow at the colorful, and vague, commentary.  
  
“You haven’t noticed, luv? Girlie’s got a crush on him bright enough to light up Manhattan.”  
  
Her brow furrowing with thought as she leaned back against Shane’s shoulder, Claire shook her head bemusedly, “Guess I never noticed. I didn’t think I was that oblivious.”  
  
“Maybe your attention’s been on your handsome devil of a boyfriend instead,” a smirk and a slight pause, “Ow!”  
  
Withdrawing her hand from where she had whacked him, Claire smiled innocently, “Serves you right. I’m shocked your ego fits through the door.”

  
“Fine, fine…did I mention thank you for the coffee? The stuff Dr. Suresh tries to brew is close to toxic.”  
  
“Less whining and more cataloguing, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” came the reply from the object of their conversation as he stepped into the room, attention occupied on the clipboard and attached papers in his hand.  
  
“The slave’s been drawn back at his master’s summons,” Shane informed her mournfully, pressing a kiss to the palm of her hand before withdrawing, moping over his work as he swung back down into his chair. Claire laughed at the sight of his boyishly pouting face, pecking his cheek as a show of sympathy.  
  
“Claire, my dear. Afternoon. Just here to see the clown, or is there something I can do for you?” Mohinder asked pleasantly, turning to the table where Shane was going through paperwork.  
  
“Actually, I was wondering if you found more on Peter. After New Year, I’ve been worried.”  
  
“P-Peter, you say. My, I’m sorry I forgot to tell you, but it was a fluke on my part. F-false calculations…”  
  
Claire eyed him dubiously, “Then there wasn’t something wrong? You mentioned his genetic code.”  
  
“N-no, just a slip up,” Mohinder gave her a weak smile, “My eyes aren’t as good as I’d wish them to be. There’s nothing abnormal about Mr. Petrelli.”

  
“…but the way he’s been acting…” Claire tried to protest, not likely whatever it was she was reading in Mohinder’s demeanor.  
  
“He’s fine, my dear,” Mohinder eyed her solemnly, his voice firmer and more insistent, “I know you care for him, but I think it’s best to not go chasing shadows. Besides, he’s taking a solution upon himself. Perhaps some distance from the city will do him some good.”  
  
“…distance…?”  
  
+++  
  
“Were you ever going to tell me?”  
  
Idly, Peter wondered why he didn’t think to ask Claire for his key back.

  
“I don’t know if you just don’t have the balls to come out and say it, or if you’re cruel enough to let me hear it from someone else.”  
  
She wasn’t just indignant. She was angry. And angry Claire was never easy to deal with.  
  
Dammit.  
  
“Dammit, Claire, you really think I’m that much of a bastard? I wanted to wait until I could get you alone.”  
  
“We’re alone now! So why don’t why the hell you’re doing this to me?”

  
He scoffed, dragging a hand through already disheveled hair, “Don’t be so self-centered. Not everything I do is about you.”  
  
She went quiet, stung. Peter shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, not likely to have hurt her but not ready to let go of his own temper, “I’m going because I need the training. One of the Chicago hospitals has an opening in their pediatrics department. They’re rated tenth in the nation for children’s care. It’ll be good for me.”  
  
He watched her anger deflate even as he himself calmed with every word, watched her expression soften and her eyes warm, grow proud and wistful, as he informed her of his future plans. “That’s your choice?”  
  
“That’s my choice.”  
  
And then she smiled, softly and sadly, “You always were good with children.”

  
A deep breath, a sharp exhalation as he blew it back out, “Claire…I…”

“I know, Peter. I’ll always know.”


	19. Hell's Slow Burn

_Month 2:_

Summer came that year with a beastly vengeance, smothering humidity hovering over the city in an overwhelming blanket of balmy heat. His cramped temporary apartment was shadowed in the dark of the night, the monotonous, thick black only broken by the view from his twelfth-story window, the stars in the skies overhead obscured by the dominating skyline a-glitter with the wide-paned window separating him from open air, lights on the horizon creating the impression of a Christmas tree shining in August.

The only sound disturbing his reflections was the low hum of the overhead fan, providing little relief in the head as rumbled black hair fell against his brow in a damp, tangled mess, his white tank clinging like a second skin to his sweat-soaked torso. This wasn’t his city, but it was close enough: the dirty, loud, sprawling mess twelve stories below him; his beginning, his middle, his end, the place that would be his life, his home, and his breath. He was to live and die in the same downward spiral.

His low laugh rumbled darkly, no humor to be found in the sound as he drew back from the window, throwing himself down on the rumpled bed, the mattress groaning with protest to his added weight as he laid his head back and his eyes strayed to stare blankly at the water-stained ceiling.

For far too many nights, Peter Petrelli had lain on this same bed, entertaining himself sleepless evening after sleepless evening by watching the rings of light on the colorless ceiling or tracing patterns in the cracks in the wall. Here, he lay in insomniac dreaming, floating the faint edge between reality and consciousness, flirting lazily with the phantoms of the dreamscape, back and forth until deep in delusion, he could no longer discern the differences.

In the darkest hours of the night, as he lay restless and exhausted from lack of sleep, it was her touch that haunted him, the very tangible memory of phantom fingers stroking against his skin, tentative caresses along his chest and arms, tracing his biceps and the muscles of his abdomen.

Her hands twining through his hair…her hands clenching at his shoulders…raking down his back…teasingly running down his spine…warm and teasing as she touched him with the most profound intimacy he had ever know.

His body trembled and tightened…the ache so intense and unbearable his breath left him. He felt close to tears, whimpering softly, biting back a pitiful groan as his mind failed to banish away the memories, as his hands reached out and sought her.

They found only empty air.

Had he honestly thought he could forget about her?

He had deluded himself, trapping himself in self-consuming lies, longing to appease his mind with such pitiful denial that not even in his groggy, sleep-deprived partial awareness could he ever believe he was capable of forgetting about her.

The girl was like a drug, her very presence intoxicating, an addiction where he could never get enough, where just being with her had been a heady thrill, dangerous and powerful as love and lust came close again and again to overwhelming him.

He laid in bed for another sleepless night, driven to the extremes of frustration by the insomnia, the ache of longing, compounding into a hurt so extreme he could scarcely breathe, wanting so badly to howl his frustration until his throat tore raw and red, until his desperation was so great he could give over to the urge for tears, weak and pitiful in his longing.

“Claire…Claire…”

Stumbling out of bed, he found himself heading straight for the cabinet he kept the celebratory liquor Nathan had sent him.

Loving her had once made him stronger. Wanting her threatened to break him.

+++

_Month 3:_

The thin fog of drowsiness enveloping his mind was broken by a sudden noise, the muted reverberation of his cell phone vibrating against the coffee table. Cursing under his breath, he blindly groped around for the offending device, releasing a pained groan as he lifted his head from the uncomfortable angle it had been resting at against the back of the couch.

“Yeah?” Even to his own ears, his voice was hoarse and thick with sleep.

There was a strange sound of static on the other end of the line, and then nothing but silence, stretching out for several moments until the lack of response grated on his already strained nerves.

“Hell? Listen, if this is a joke, I’m not in the mood. It’s late if you haven’t noticed.”

A soft, muffled sob, and then a small, barely audible whisper of, “Peter?”

Peter immediately straightened up, his mind suddenly more awake. “Claire?”

Another sob, a broken, pained sound pulling at his heartstrings. He swallowed hard, letting his eyes flutter close. “Claire, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” The tenderness of the endearment rolled from his lips smooth as silk, the lingering pain at their separation growing to a tangible ache.

“Without you here? Everything.”

+++

Looking down at the city, Peter could only stare dully, too lost in the racing torment of his thoughts. Five months of distance had not deadened the ache- the longing, the pain- the fucked up side of him still loving and lusting for his own goddamned niece. At least when Claire went to school in London, there had been constant contact (letters and emails to account for her exploits, her laughter and the beloved sound of her voice ever-present on the other end of the telephone), and while he had known the pleasure of making love to her, he had yet been ignorant of the sweet intimacy of being together.

Now, now there was only silence, and it didn’t make his heart hurt any less.

He was expected home soon. His bosses expected him back in New York by September 17th. His own birthday, and there wouldn’t even be any reprieve to prepare himself for seeing her again. Nathan wasn’t taking no for an answer when it came to a family dinner to celebrate. It wasn’t everyday he turned thirty-five according to big brother.

Peter closed his eyes, releasing a pent-up rush of breath. Three weeks and he would be due back from a temporary purgatory to the torturous hell he and Claire shared together.

Out of the frying pan and back into the flames.


	20. Fallible Fêtes

“Sorry I’m late.”

The announcement brought Peter out of his laughter, light chuckling over one of the boys’ jokes, his jaw tightening with sudden tension as the familiar figure of Shane Fitzpatrick stepped into one of the family rooms of the Petrelli mansion.

His smile faded and his face shifted into an shuttered expression, his eyes trained on the Fitzpatrick boy as he gave cordial greetings to the family, taking the offered seat beside Claire. He watched the hand placed on her knee, the brunette head bending down toward his niece, intent on a kiss…

The liquor glass shattering in his hand was a sharp, quick sensation barely registering with the sudden spasm in his heart as their lips met, the weight of eyes belonging to the entire room’s occupants uncomfortably settling upon him with the crash.

Claire was immediately at his side, gently clasping his hand, wiping stray glass shards from his palm as Nathan fixed his stern gaze on Peter, accusing and reprimanding, “Peter! That was one of my best glasses!”

“My apologies, Nathan,” was the mumbled reply as Peter’s eyes stayed fixed on Claire’s, only shifting briefly to watch the wounds in his hands reknit themselves. Resisting the urge to press her lips to the freshly healed skin, Claire settled for letting her hand rest over his. Peter responded to the touch, closing his fingers over hers, and as she reciprocated, their hands tightly entwined.

In the background, Heidi was summoning a maid to clean up the mess, and Angela was chastising Peter for his clumsiness. Claire ignored it all, keeping her eyes on Peter’s expression, inwardly dismayed she could no longer read the beautiful enigma of a man before her.

Levels of their connection breaking and caving in, those tightly-bound ties that bound them together, fraying and loosening…it was a terrifying thought…

“Peter, are you sure you’re okay?”

“You know the answer to that,” he replied, his tone solemn, “Better than anyone.”

She nodded wordlessly, knowing he was right. He was no more okay than she was.

Claire knew what it was to still be bleeding on the inside.

Leaving Peter and Claire not knowing whether she was dangerously in-tune to their strange moment or just oblivious, Angela chose that moment to interrupt, “Really, Claire, leave your uncle be. Grown men hardly need to be coddled.” Flushing, Claire dropped Peter’s hand and stepped back, casting a guilty look in Shane’s direction. The Irishman’s expression was unreadable.

“Besides,” Angela continued, pressing hard on such a sore point Peter had to resist the urge to throttle her, “Something as paltry as a broken glass hardly registers much higher than an itch to either of you, am I right?”

Not quite understanding what his mother had said wrong but not liking the look on his daughter’s face, Nathan frowned sourly, opening his mouth to reply, only to have Peter beat him to the punch.

“It’s my birthday, Mother,” was the younger Petrelli’s soft interjection, “You should be nicer to my party guests, especially family,” emphasizing the last word and pointedly ignoring Angela’s indignant silence, Peter rose from his chair, favoring a soft smile in Shane’s direction as he approached.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick, long time no see,” he held out a hand and the younger man stared bemusedly at it before tentatively shaking it, relaxing enough to return Peter’s smile, “I’m sorry for the strange greeting you got, but I am glad you’re here. We ought to grant Claire some younger company to these things more often. The rest of us are too old and too boring to be of much consequence.”

“Speak for yourself, Peter,” Nathan commented, lighter humor coloring his voice as he saw what he surmised to be a shift in his little brother’s mood, “Thirty-four and already married to your career.”

Not quite ready to make nice, Peter’s lips upturned into a smile, tinged with cynicism, “We all don’t have it in us to take mistresses, Nathan.”

The heavy tension that followed was only interrupted by the maid’s call that the meal was ready in the dining room.

++

He could feel her still.

If there was one thing he both loved and despised about his ability, it was still feeling her inside. He could feel the essence of her- not just the brimming force of her power- writhing and twisting beneath his skin, inside of his very being, permanently infused into every part of him.

The little boy-toy’s birthday gift had been a bottle of good Irish whiskey, a considerable percentage of which was now creating the warm buzz in Peter’s head.

“You know,” a voice announced behind him, familiar enough to earn an inward groan he did not allow to be audible, “I’m not sure if Nathan wants you dead and buried, or if he’s just trying to convince himself you’ve had too much to drink.”

“To hell with what Nathan thinks.”

“Peter…”

“Besides…you and I both know that’s not possible.”

“Isn’t that what you’re trying to accomplish? You’ve probably had more than enough to poison any other man.”

Peter gave a derisive snort, “I’m not any other man, am I? There’s nothing normal about me…” he held up the half-empty glass in his hand, “Not even this, not with you beneath my skin.”

She closed her eyes briefly, a pained expression momentarily crossing her features before she stepped forward and snatched the glass from his hands, letting it fall over the veranda railing. They both silently watched as the glass crashed against the concrete path below, shattered into countless splintered pieces.

“Now Nathan’ll be on my case again about his damn glasses.”

She slipped her arms around his waist from behind, shrugging off his bland comment as she rested her chin against the crook of his shoulder. She’d missed this, the solid reassurance of him, feeling the strength of him, warm and still, against her. Shane could not even begin to compare, no matter how she tried. “To hell with what Nathan thinks, remember?”

Peter accepted her embrace, laying his hands over the slender arms wrapped around him. “The family’s right inside.”

“It’s your birthday. I’m allowed to hug you.”

He nodded, and Claire maneuvered her body parallel with his, hiding her intended actions. She slid a hand beneath the hem of his shirt, pressed her palm against the tension filling his muscles. Peter sighed, relaxing with the soothing motion of her hand rubbing circles against his back. He murmured incoherently, his eyes closing as his back arched into the touch.

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” he reminded her, the resistance in his voice weak even to his own ears.

“When have we ever done what we should?”

“Point taken,” he bit his lip, his body responding fervently to her proximity. Claire smoothed both hands up his sides, fingers tracing along his ribcage- the touch tormenting, intoxicating, soothing…both invasive to his resolve and welcome to his heart.

“I have something for you,” she told him softly, pressing a light kiss to his neck, Peter shivering against the feel of her lips against his skin, “for your birthday.”

She withdrew her hands from him and he almost moaned with protest at the loss, watching through hooded eyes as she crossed the balcony, “You didn’t have to get me anything, sweetheart.”

She froze momentarily at an endearment she had not heard in over nine months and Peter sucked in his breath, afraid he had crossed the imaginary boundaries they tended to rearrange so often, but then she picked up the object of her search from a small table by the veranda door, turned back around to face him with a soft smile adorning her face.

“When have I ever not gotten you something? Minus the first sixteen years.”

Peter grinned, “I think you managed to make up for sixteen years of birthdays, Claire.”

Seeing the glint in his eyes, she coyly arched an eyebrow, “Have I? So I suppose I don’t have to spend money on you anymore…” feeling his gaze trail down her form, “Just offer you my body?”

“Well, if you put it that way…”

“Pervert.”

He cast a cocky smile in her direction, falling into the familiar pattern of the easy, flirting banter, “Have I ever claimed to be anything but?”

“I suppose not,” she stepped closer, pressing the present into his hand, “Happy birthday, Peter.”

He gave her a smile and unwrapped the small parcel, his eyes widening with interest as he removed three slim, leather-bound novels, “Claire, this is…”

“Do you like them?” she sounded sweetly unsure, looking up at him with nervous eyes, “I remember last year when you went with me to that poetry seminar my professor organized, you would kind of perk up at these. Did I get it right?”

Poetry- a collection of E.E. Cummings works, Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass collection, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda; reflections of the eclectic literary tastes he had developed when he himself was in college. Subtle details that warmed him from the inside out, knowing she remembered.

Peter blinked away tears; his love for the poetry was something he thought was his own little secret, kept inside under the weight of Petrelli uniform expectation- his little blonde sweetheart really had managed to break down every boundary he had inside.

He locked his arms around her, holding her tightly against him; Claire wrapped her arms around his shoulders, nestling close to him as Peter buried his face in her hair, trembling slightly. “Thank you, Claire. God, thank you…thank you, sweetheart.”

“You like it then?” she asked him shyly.

“It means more than you could ever know.”

She cocked her head curiously, “What do you mean?”

“Another time. I’ll tell you, promise, but not now.” He released her, stepping back with a quiet smile.

She nodded her assent, glancing at him thoughtfully as he idly flipped through one of the books, studying the strong profile emphasized by the cobalt shadows around them, the low cast of the florescent lights overhead. “Peter.”

“Hmm?”

“About my birthday…I never did thank you…”

“What for?”

“The locket you left me. It was months ago, and I…I never thanked you.”

He went quiet for a long moment, finally looking up from the book to turn his eyes to her, “I should have given it to you in person. I’m sorry.”

She shrugged a shoulder, “Its fine. I just…I wanted a chance to thank you.”

His expression was unreadable as he put the book down, running a hand through his hair as he looked away. He frowned, and she was given the impression of him arguing with himself, fingers either drumming against his thigh or running fitfully through his hair. It would have been a comical sight with she was not so uncertain.

“Peter?”

He sighed, a rushing exhalation of air and he turned his head back around to face her, “You want to thank me?”

She nodded, taking a hesitant step forward. He looked away again, his eyes dark, nostrils flaring as his body tensed. “Touch me,” he instructed quietly.

Bewildered, “What?”

“Take my hand, and no one will see.”

Her eyes met his. _A spark._

Obediently, she slid her hand into his, her fingertips pressing to his. _A kindled flame._

He pressed his opposite hand to the small of her back, gently coaxing her closer as he let the invisibility take hold. _A slow burn._

Her body curved into his, leaning close, a perfect fit, and his mouth meshed over hers. _Hell’s fire._

From first contact, she melted into him, and he lost all control, his mouth demanding and plundering against hers, his arms pinning her to the unyielding strength of his body, urgently deepening the kiss to taste everything his memory barely gave justice to. _Heaven’s inferno._

Claire moaned softly, twining her fingers through his hair, pressing against him even as he pressed her back against the balcony railing. His hips bucked against her, hands running feverishly down her back, cupping the back of her thighs to haul her even closer to him.

She rocked into him, her lips parting with a gasp of pleasure as his mouth left hers, trailing down her jaw and neck in hot, open-mouthed kisses. Peter pushed down the collar of her shirt, lighting sucking at her fluttering pulse-point. Worrying the skin with his teeth, his fingers stroking her sides, from her stomach to just beneath her breasts, he then ran his tongue over the tempered flesh, smiling at the moan that escaped her.

“Peter…”

“Shh,” he soothed, keeping his lips chaste this time around as he dropped light, feathery kisses to her skin, exhaling softly, his breath a teasing caress across the over-sensitized flesh, “Shh.”

She relaxed against him, leaning her head against his chest to feel the rampart beat of his heart. He ran his fingers through her curls, pressed his lips to her temple and then stepped back, eyes languidly half-mast as he smiled at her. He grinned lazily, “Thank you?”

“Thank you,” she affirmed, brushing his kiss against his cheek, throwing him a wink over her shoulder as she sauntered back into the family home, sliding the door closed behind her.

His mouth still curved into a smile, Peter leaned against the railing, reaching for one of Claire’s birthday gifts, the Cummings collection. He flipped the book open to a random page, and began to read,

“Come a little further - why be afraid - here's the earliest star, have you a wish? Touch me, before we perish, believe that not anything which has ever been invented can spoil this or this instant.”

Taking a deep breath, he smiled to himself, “kiss me a little, the air darkens and is alive. O’ live with me in the fewness of these colors, alone who slightly always are beyond the reach of death.”

He dropped his head back, taking in the sight of the night sky above him, and sighed to himself, softly repeating,

“Believe that not anything which have ever been invented can spoil this or this moment. Never, indeed.”

That connection, living, writhing, pulsing inside him…eternal.

Hell and high water, they were eternal. If there was one thing he could give her that the boy-toy could never imagine, it was forever.

Peter smiled softly to himself, “Happy birthday to me.”

Happy birthday indeed.


	21. Stay with Me

Claire fumbled, distracted, with her keys, leaning tiredly against her doorframe as she struggled to bring her mind back into some semblance of focus. From behind her, Shane rested a hand against her shoulder, his concerned whisper filling her ear, “You alright, luv?”  
  
She nodded, leaning back against him slightly, “I’m fine. Just…tired.” It was a half-assed answer at best, but the most she could muster- it was partially true anyway; she was exhausted from the emotional rings she’d been spinning in since she left Peter alone in the balcony.  
  
Shane nodded wordlessly, taking the keys from her trembling hands and unlocking the door, gently guiding her inside. He closed the door behind them, watching her thoughtfully as she sat down on the couch, and he joined her a moment later. “Claire?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“What happened tonight…is that normal for them?”  
  
She sighed, letting her head fall back against the sofa cushion, “Unfortunately. My family is dysfunction at its ugliest,” she turned to look at him, offering a wan smile, “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”  
  
“Oh, I think I can handle.”  
  
“You think so?”  
  
“I know so,” he leaned forward, grasping her chin gently as he kissed her, his mouth a warm press to hers. She smiled as they parted, leaning into the touch of his thumb stroking her cheek, “You’re too worth it to give up.”  
  
She kissed him again, sighing as she rested her head against his shoulder, “Tonight was…strange. It’s nothing unusual about Grand-mama being a bitch, but for Peter to intentionally go toe-to-toe with Nathan, that’s not normal. That’s not like him.”  
  
“Peter?”  
  
“Yeah. Sometimes Nathan can be a real ass, but Peter’s never been one to openly attack him. Especially not in a way that could hurt Heidi.”  
  
Shane frowned, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “Maybe he and your dad have been fighting. They are brothers. I get into scraps with my boyos all the time.”  
  
“No, I would have noticed. Nathan…not so much, but Peter’s the open-book type. Heart on his sleeve, thoughts in his eyes, that sort of thing. If he was tense about something, I’d have noticed.”  
  
“You’re kidding me, right?”  
  
“What?” Bewildered, Claire glanced up at him, taking in his disconcerted expression, “What’s wrong?”  
  
“He didn’t seem very readable to me. At times, I was sure he was going to pull back and hit me any moment…other times, he seemed excessively welcoming. I hate to say, but it was strange. I couldn’t ever tell what he was thinking.”  
  
Claire sighed, tiredly rubbing at her temples, “He’s changing. I don’t understand it anymore.”  
  
His expression thoughtful, he questioned, “You and Peter…you’re close?”  
  
“Yeah. I guess so.”  
  
“But, not so much lately, right?”  
  
“Hmm-mm, why…?” she trailed off, her tone puzzled. Shane squeezed her shoulder gently, the gesture reciprocated as she leaned further into the circle of his arm.  
  
He offered a small smile, “Maybe you miss that, y’know. You said you didn’t really get along with Nathan, so that probably brought you closer to Peter. You guys are more distant from each other now. You lose touch with him, you lose that family connection. You miss it.”  
  
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his eyes closing with resignation as he acknowledged something he had refused to acknowledge aloud, “You miss him.”  
  
Family. Right. Closing her own eyes, she pressed her face to the crook of his neck. “Are you a psychologist, or a scientist?”  
  
He smiled wanly, “My father is a psychology professor in Dublin.”  
  
“That explains it.”  
  
He huffed out a laugh, cut off short by the thicker sound of a yawn, “I think I had a bit too much to drink tonight. I’m not usually like this.”  
  
“Mmm, emotionally touchy-feely?”  
  
“That.”  
  
“You do want me to call you a cab?”  
  
“No money. Do you think I can stay here tonight?”  
  
Claire’s eyes flew open, her body tensing against him. “Shane, you know I’m not ready for-“  
  
“I know, I know. I meant the couch, luv.”  
  
Mid-September. Nine months since she and Peter had parted ways- five months casually dating men respectable enough to meet Nathan’s approval, the handsome Irish youth among them, while nursing her broken heart; the remaining time given to seeing Shane more seriously, her heart still more than a little tender.  
  
Nine months, and she’d yet to be with a man intimately…twenty-three and she was hesitant to spend the night with a boyfriend of four months, disconcertingly her in remembering nearly a year had passed since her first date with Shane, knowing her first and only had been Peter alone.  
  
Shane was patient, especially after she told him about her experience with in high school- Brody’s attack, and the ugly aftermath- and still it was disturbing to her own mind that she wasn’t ready. Loving Peter was harsh, unyielding and constant, unrelenting in its pain, abandoning her to the ache of yearning without the fulfillment of actually being with him.  
  
“Yeah…yeah, you can stay.”  
  
“Ok.”

++  
  
Working the night shift was never his favorite thing in life, but after having spent two years on the waiting list for a hospital internship, he could not bring himself to raise his voice in complaint.  
  
The corridors were eerily empty in the early morning as he made his rounds, the neon glow of the overhead lights illuminating a strangely yellow hue, the only sounds to be heard the low hum of conversation or the occasional ringing phone to be heard from the nurses’ station.  
  
His last visit of the night was old Mr. Harrison, a kindly man late in his eighties who had suffered his third heart attack in five years despite affectionate care given by his extensive family; as a father of eleven, grandfather of fifteen and great-grandfather of twenty-four, his room was never empty.  
  
Peter smiled at the elderly man’s prone, slumbering form, taking in the soft, wheezing snores as a good sign of undisturbed sleep as he quietly exchanged his goodbyes with the grandson on bedside duty and left the room.  
  
Even before he had managed to close the door behind him, he found himself accosted in the corridor by the attending on duty in his department, Dr. Hodkins. Hodkins was a constantly fretful man whose aquiline features and habit of glancing down at people over the glasses perched at the bridge of his nose had earned his the nickname of “Hawkman” among the interns and younger residents.  
  
The man glanced up from his clipboard for the barest moment, squinting narrow dark eyes in his direction. “Ah, Petrelli. You’re still here. Good.”  
  
Peter smiled at the older man, trying his best to remain courteous despite the sense of foreboding that settled like a lead weight in his stomach at the way Hodkins continued looking back at his clipboard every few moments, as if he had trouble believing the information to be found there.  
  
“Something I can do for you, Dr. Hodkins?”  
  
The doctor huffed, tapping his pen against the clipboard in a nervous gesture. “Yes, Petrelli. You’re wanted upstairs right away.”  
  
Peter’s brow furrowed as he frowned. “Upstairs? But that’s out of my area.”  
  
Hodkins shrugged, thrusting the orders at him, “Special orders from Dr. Fuller. You better get going, Peter. You don’t want to see Fuller angry, believe me.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
Crossing the corridor and entering the elevator, Peter waited until the doors slid firmly shut before he slumped against the wall and sighed, irritably rolling back sore shoulders. “Wonderful,” he grumbled to himself, “Three a.m. and Fuller decides to add some diversity to my schedule.”  
  
With a familiar ping, the elevator doors slid open once more and with a lazy gait to his walk, Peter exited, glancing down at the papers in his hand as he went. “Let’s see…Room 413.” Glancing up, he quietly counted off the labeled numbers as he passed each dark room. “410…411…412…ah, 413.”  
  
“Dr. Petrelli?”  
  
Looking up from his clipboard in surprise, Peter smiled at the pretty young nurse who had called his name, a sweet red-head by the name of Grace who’d started at the hospital around the same time Peter’s internship began.  
  
“Hi, Gracie. Something I can do for you?”  
  
“Actually, yes,” giving him a sheepish look, “Mr. Roberts in 413 has already been checked this rotation.”  
  
Quizzical, “But Hodkins gave him orders from higher-up.”  
  
“Forged,” she smiled mischievously at the confusion blanketing his handsome features.  
  
“Whatever for?”  
  
“To get you up here, without Hodkins getting on anybody’s case. There’s someone here to see you.”  
  
Bemused, he could only obediently follow after her as she let the way to the nurse’s station. What he found there had him frozen ramrod, his feet refusing to step forward, suddenly leaden-heavy against the tiled floor.  
  
She was the picture of vulnerable beauty. His eyes caught the first idle detail, the pair of black heels dangling from her hand, replaced on her feet by a pair of hospital slippers. She was outfitted in a gorgeous emerald-green dress, cut in all the right places to be demure enough for a nice outing and still be enticing to the eye.  
  
And speaking of eyes, the dress brought out the breathtaking hue of hers so fantastically, though his breath caught painfully as he saw such sadness, even touches of panic, filling the viridian gaze. The porcelain skin of her cheeks were tear-stained, mascara streaks and patchy makeup being lovingly wiped away with a tissue by Samara, the buxom, African-American head nurse who brooded over her subordinates like a mother hen to her chicks.  
  
“Claire,” he stated, his voice hoarse with emotion. Her eyes found him, still glistening with unshed tears.  
  
“Peter.”  
  
They found themselves being watched by the half-a-dozen nurses on duty, a couple of them even ducking their heads together to gossip, conjuring up theories to explain the profound look shared between the handsome doctor and the crying young woman. Peter paid them no mind, trapped up in his world with no one but the two of them.  
  
Peter cocked his head, his expression contemplative. “Claire, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”  
  
Closing her eyes painfully, Claire numbly shook her head, bringing to his attention the elegant twist to her hair, damp and tangled- most likely from the storm raging outside. And speaking of the storm outside, the satin material of her dress was blatantly wet, the hem of the skirt dark with a mud-stain, her arms bare and raised with goosebumps.  
  
Frowning, Peter shrugged out of his lab-coat, setting it aside as he pulled a black sweater he’s worn against the October chill over his head, leaving his torso at the mercy of the thin material of the t-shirt he wore beneath.  
  
He set his hands against her elbows, gently instructing, “Up.” Claire obeyed, lifting her arms so he could pull the sweater over her head.  
  
“Thank you,” she told him shyly.  
  
“Of course. Are you going to tell me what you were doing out in this? It’s terrible out there.”  
  
She smiled humorlessly, “I hardly noticed. I just wandered for hours. I couldn’t even think straight, my feet just took me here.”  
  
Peter’s face softened and he stepped forward, holding out his arms. Claire flew into the familiarity of his embrace, clutching desperately to the reassurance of him as she shivered, not from cold but the toll the evening was taking on her.  
  
Peter pressed a kiss to her forehead, “What happened?”  
  
“Shane proposed to me tonight,” she pressed her face to Peter’s clothed chest, felt the way his muscles contracted with sudden tension, “He took me to dinner. It was perfect, him, the food, the atmosphere, even the way he asked. I couldn’t say a thing. I just walked out on him.”  
  
“He proposed? Marriage?”  
  
She nodded against him, snuggling against the warmth permeating from his body. Peter’s eyes closed briefly, taking in a deep breath and exhaling huffily, “Ok. Ok.”  
  
“Ok?”  
  
He nodded, drawing back enough to look her in the eye, rubbing his hands down her arms. “Why don’t stay with me tonight? You look exhausted.”  
  
“Probably better than I feel.”  
  
He smiled, pressed another kiss to the top of her head. He looked over her crown to Samara smiling knowingly at the couple, “Sam, I need to get my stuff from my locker. Can you keep an eye on her for me?”  
  
“Sure thing, honey. Just hurry back.”  
  
Cocking an eyebrow, somehow better sustained in Peter’s presence, Claire glared at him pointedly. “I don’t need a babysitter.”  
  
“I know. But it’s for my own piece of mind. And,” he pointed to two of the nurses, Marian and Stephanie, huddled together and looking at the pair eagerly for the moment they would separate, “those two are gossipmongers. They’d be all over you the second I stepped out of sight.  
  
“Ah.” Enlightened, Claire stepped back to the security of Samara’s company.  
  
Samara, for her part, watched most of the interactions with a thoughtful, quiet air, turning to blonde with a smile, “Peter someone special to you?”  
  
Shyly, Claire nodded her head, “You could say that.”  
  
Instead of calling her on the ambiguous answer, Samara only nodded sagely. “That’s good. The boy could use some happy in his life.”  
  
When Peter returned a few minutes later with his coat and bag, he wrapped an arm around the blonde, calling his goodbyes to the rest of the night shift as he led his former lover out of the building.  
  
As they strode silently down the corridor, Claire looked at him, suddenly solemn. “Peter, what should I do now?”  
  
His face unreadable, Peter kept his eyes looking ahead as he pressed the button for the elevator, the only sign he had heard her being the sudden tightening of his hand on her shoulder. “Come home with me tonight,” he responded finally as they stepped into the elevator, his voice barely carrying above a whisper, “And then say yes to him in the morning.”  
  
Leaning her head against his shoulder, hiding the sudden traitorous expression her animated face provided, Claire said nothing.


	22. Drowning

He leaned back against the bed, propping an elbow behind his head and grinning lazily as Claire undressed. Her back faced him, Claire smiling teasingly at him over her shoulder as she let her dress fall away, the silken fabric hitting the floor with barely a whisper of sound.  
  
Pure, unadulterated fascination quickly outweighing the simplicity of lust, it was with a mesmerized air that his eyes trailed over her. She had released her hair from its coiffed tie-up, allowing the sun-kissed curls to cascade down the smooth expanse of her back. He rose noiselessly to his feet, approaching her with careful steps and even more cautious touch as he settled his hands against her waist.  
  
“Peter,” she whispered her name as his fingers splayed out against her abdomen, letting his long thumbs smooth over the curve of her buttocks, sliding upward to trace the subtle outlines of her ribcage as she breathed, more heavily ragged with each touch.  
  
He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder, gently unfastening the clasp to her bra, guiding Claire’s arms up to slip it off her torso. Peter smoothed his hands higher, grazing the underside of her breasts.  
  
She moaned, her head falling back against his shoulder as her eyes fluttered closed. His hands molded to her breasts, his lips brushing against the lobe of her ear, tongue tracing the shell as his arms wrapped around her, holding her close to him.  
  
Realizing he was stopping, she fell back into his embrace- melted into the warmth of him, “I love you, you know.”  
  
“I know, sweetheart,” another kiss to her shoulder, “I’ll get you a shirt. Come to bed when you’re done?”  
  
“M’kay.”  
  
The t-shirt he handed her swallowed her lithe frame, something she noticed amusedly as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, finishing cleaning up in order to join Peter in the bedroom. He was stretching out on the bed when she came back to the room, shirtless and barefoot in his boxer shorts, glasses perches against his nose as he read quietly from the novel in his hand. She warmly smiled as she recognized one of her birthday gifts.  
  
She slid in next to him, grateful Peter had turned down the covers as she felt the sudden change of temperature, contently nestling into the warmth providing both by the blanket and Peter’s radiating body heat. She leaned her head against his shoulder, curiously glancing at the book. “Which one?”  
  
“Whitman,” he smiled down at her, quoting softly, “I hear you whispering O stars of heaven, O suns…O grass of graves…O perpetual transfers and promotions…if you do not say anything how can I say anything?”  
  
“That’s pretty.”  
  
“Mmm, there are prettier things in the room,” he grinned at her, kissing her temple. Claire smiled shyly in return, reaching out to absently trace one of the rims belonging to his glasses.  
  
“I thought you hated wearing these?”  
  
“I do. I went to the optometrist, and I tried to convince him that I don’t really need them anymore.”  
  
“Does the healing work that way?”  
  
“Seems that way. But the doc was adamant that my eyes were supposed to weaken as I got older, and once he found out I hadn’t been wearing them, he had a fit. The most I could talk him down to was weaker lenses.”  
  
“Poor baby,” she had a hard time holding back a smile, comically picturing Peter bantering with a stubborn eye-doctor, all the while having to hold back knowledge of his special abilities.  
  
“The sympathy there just sounds so sincere,” he replied dryly, eyes focused once more on his book, attempting to ignore the new distraction of her fingers idly running down his arm.  
  
“So sorry.” Her grin was unrepentant, even more so as she leaned upward, catching his earlobe between her teeth. Peter moaned, dropping his book into his lap, “Claire…I’m trying to read.”  
  
“Read to me?”  
  
“Will you sleep if I do?”  
  
“Possibly.”  
  
“I’ll take what I can get, I suppose.”  
  
++  
  
The next morning, Claire gave a small, delicate whisper of, “yes,” to another man.  
  
She couldn’t look her new fiancée in the eye as he smiled joyfully, sliding the engagement ring onto her finger.  
  
++  
  
“Claire, have you seen my tie?”  
  
Sighing to herself as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, fussing with the curls of her hair, she turned her head toward the open bathroom door, from which she could see Shane fumbling around in her bedroom.  
  
“It’s on the back of the chair, last I checked.”  
  
“Thanks, luv.”  
  
Moving from her hair to applying her makeup, Claire called to him, “Do you even know how to tie the thing?”  
  
“Afraid not,” was his sheepish response.  
  
“Come in here.”  
  
He appeared through the door a moment later in black slacks, white dress shirt and cummerbund, fiddling with the tie looped around his neck. Claire put down her makeup case, reaching for him, expertly setting to work on the tie.  
  
“How’d you learn this?”  
  
“Simon and Monty.”  
  
“Little brothers didn’t know how?”  
  
“They knew how. They were just too fussy about it.”  
  
He grinned, watching as she stepped back to admire her handiwork, determining it satisfactory, but when she turned away from him without comment, his smile faded.  
  
“Are you that angry with me? You won’t even talk to me.”  
  
“We were just talking.”  
  
“Banter. Not quality conversation.”  
  
Pausing at the application of her eyeliner, Claire blew out a frustrated breath, meeting his eyes through the mirror, “What do you expect me to say, Shane? You’re asking me to pack up and move across an ocean.”  
  
“I’m asking you to come home with me. You’re going to be my wife, Claire.”  
  
“This is my home.”  
  
“And Dublin’s mine. I miss my family, luv. My work with Dr. Suresh is almost over. I want to go home.”  
  
“My whole life’s here, Shane.”  
  
“Aren’t I a part of your life now?”  
  
“Of course…but…”  
  
“How important a part am I?”  
  
Claire hesitated, and Shane’s eyes hardened. His jaw clenched and he shook his head as she struggled for a response.  
  
He left the room without waiting for an answer.  
  
++  
  
Struggling with the strange déjà vu that had been the previous year’s New Year’s celebration held by Nathan, Claire fiddled with her ring as the Petrelli family plus one entered the mansion, worn out enough to only be making light conversation among themselves.  
  
Shane had been distant all evening, stiff and unyielding when they danced, a total of twice the entire night, and oddly non-talkative despite the family occasion. He usually wielded such finesse and charisma at Nathan’s political events, charming her bio-father’s associates in such a way that no one questioned the match they made in their engagement.  
  
But tonight he’d been surly, ill-tempered- not that she could blame him after their argument earlier- but when he quietly accepted Nathan’s offer of a drink, she silently worried, given how much he’d consumed that night already.  
  
Traitorous as she felt, she could not help when her gaze fell on Peter, partly taken by surprise and partly not, as she found his eyes already on her.  
  
When she excused herself to use the bathroom, Shane followed after.  
  
++  
  
The argument that followed was explosive.  
  
He was beyond intoxicated, blindly, stupidly drunk. The slur to Shane’s words was blatant, his eyes hazy and angry, the alcohol palpable on his breath when he leaned close, snapping at her in low, harsh tones, though she kept him on his heels as she vehemently responded, shoving him away as he came too close.  
  
The volume rose, their shouts echoing through the small hallway, alerting the family to the fight. The first one Claire noticed on the scene was Peter, hair mussed and tuxedo jacket removed, frowning sternly but with eyes of concern as he stepped forward to intervene.  
  
Nathan, Angela and Heidi were not far behind.  
  
Peter grabbed Shane’s arm, forcefully pulling him back from his niece, “That’s enough. I think it’s time you backed off.”  
  
In response, Shane only sneered, ripping his arm out of Peter’s grasp, “That’s rich, coming from you. Shouldn’t I be telling you that?”  
  
“I don’t follow.”  
  
“Your interest in my fiancée, that’s what I’m talking about.”  
  
Peter’s eyes narrowed, “I think you’ve had too much to drink. You’ll regret saying much more in the morning.”  
  
“Will I?” he turned his head back toward Claire, his tone mocking, “Always the knight to your rescue, huh, luv? Your precious Peter trumps any other man, right?”  
  
Claire went pale, sharing a look with Peter before she shakily answered the drunken man, “Shane, stop it.”  
  
“Why should I? He’s the reason you won’t come back to Ireland with me, right? Cause you’re in love with him.”  
  
Hearing a gasp from behind them, Peter barely registered that it came from Heidi as he raised a hand to strike the younger man, blind to anything but protecting the secret he and Claire had worked so desperately to hide for nearly seven years.  
  
Claire grabbed for his arm, gently restraining him. More than capable of breaking free, Peter accepted the hindrance and her touch, moving his hand to touch hers briefly.  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Shane,” Claire said steadily, finding her only confidence in tightly gripping Peter’s fingers before releasing them, “I think I should call you a cab, so you can go home and sleep this off.”  
  
“I’m not stupid, Claire. God, the first time we met it was more than obvious. You think I didn’t see you kiss him that day? What about on his birthday- how twisted is it that the first time you bring me to a family event, you were out snogging him? God, I tried to ignore it, I really did, but this is sick, Claire. You’re both sick.”  
  
He stepped closer to Peter, right in his face, “How’s it feel, Uncle Peter? Feel like a real man for screwing your own niece?”  
  
Peter’s jaw tightened, and he stepped toward Shane again, Claire’s hands falling from his arm as she fell back against the opposite wall, stricken. It was Nathan that intervened this time.  
  
“This is more than unacceptable,” he snapped, grabbing Shane’s arm and pulling him away from his brother and daughter, both of which looked ill, “I’m calling you a cab, but boy, you’re waiting for it on the front stoop. I don’t want you back in my house tonight.”  
  
He disappeared around the corner with the flailing Shane, and the others were left in awkward quiet. Claire unsuccessfully stifled a sob, Peter glancing toward her with bewildered remorse, uncertain how to possibly proceed.  
  
While Angela only stared in mute, disgusted disapproval, Heidi, though pale and shaken, tentatively stepped forward, wrapping her arms in comfort around her step-daughter.  
  
“Shh, it’s all right, dear. It was the alcohol talking that made him say such horrible things. It will be alright. No one thinks less of you for ugly things said in nothing more than spite.”  
  
Despite herself, Claire leaned into the embrace, unused to much affection from her stepmother beyond warm familiarity, but accepting of it none the less. Though she believed none of the words coming from the woman’s mouth, knowing Heidi was trying to convince herself even more than Claire, she still allowed herself to find comfort in the soothing tone.  
  
“Peter.”  
  
Reentered the corridor was Nathan, stony-faced and imposing, the very picture of the family partriarch and hardened politician he’d worked so hard to forge himself into.  
  
Peter wearily raised his head, hesitant to meet his brother’s eye, “Nathan.”  
  
“Too much to drink or not, none of that was necessary, or accepted in this house. I made that clear to the boy. Take Claire home, she looks exhausted. Get some sleep and come see me in the morning.”  
  
Wordlessly, Peter nodded, only pausing at the door to help Claire into her jacket before they left out the back entrance, Nathan’s driver waiting for them.  
  
In the car, they were silent. Peter leaned against the door as he helped the weary young woman stretch out over the seat, her head in his lap as he stroked his fingers through her golden curls.  
  
“Peter?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I hate to ask, but-“  
  
“He lives with you right now, right? You can come back with me.”  
  
“Can we go some place first?”  
  
++  
  
She was at her most beautiful under the silvery sheen of the moonlight.  
  
They’d come to this place before, dozens of times before, and even after a near year, there were some things that never changed.  
  
There was just something about these moments, when they walked together through the park, the velvety darkness of the night wrapping around them in the cover they so desperately needed, the full face of the winter moon filling the skies.  
  
They would stroll hand in hand through the place that served as their sanctuary.  
  
Here, in the cover of darkness, they could be together without worry, to kiss, to touch, to share embraces and secrets, just to talk or sit together and enjoy the company and the quiet. It was the perfect escape, to leave the rest of the world behind and indulge in nothing but one another.  
  
On that night as the moon rose above in the heavens, and the brilliant light streamed down towards earth, washing over them in its pallid glow, she raised her head to watch the stars, and the light caught her visage, leaving her breathtaking. She struck an ethereal figure, a gorgeous celestial goddess, something of inhuman perfection, an otherworldly apparition.  
  
She felt so distantly beautiful then, and his head would ache at that distance. He was be struck with those familiar feelings of longing, the knowledge that she was beyond him, too good for him. That he had too much dark inside him to reach for the perfection of the light.  
  
And then, she turned her head toward him once more, the cruelly beautiful features warming with her soft smile reserved only for him, and she tugged on his hand to pull him closer, kissing him, wrapping her lithe arms around his body, holding him close.  
  
And he was reminded that she was no longer as distant as the heavenly moonlight, that she was warm and passionate and utterly coming alive in his arms. As he was hers, she was his, and that was all that mattered in the end.  
  
It should have all been in the past, but there it was, right in front of his face once more, begging for acknowledgement. So as he kissed her, he pushed back the pain, the guilt, the thought of tomorrow, and gave into the passion of it all.  
  
Swept away like the ocean’s tide, he surrendered.  
  
_“Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,_  
_Of the moon that descents the steeps of the soughing twilight,_  
_Toss, sparkles of day and dusk…toss on the black stems that decay in the muck,_  
_Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs._  
  
_I ascend from the moon…I ascend from the night,_  
_And I perceive of the ghastly glitter the sunbeams reflected,_  
_And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small._  
  
_There is that in me…I do not know what it is…but I know it is in me.”_  
  
-Walt Whitman  
Leaves of Grass


	23. Descent

_Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.  
_  
The shadow outlined the silhouette of him as he leaned against the door to his own bedroom, watching her sitting upon his bed. There weren’t any more tears to be shed, any regrets or what if’s to vocalize. They were trapped, and they both knew it.   
  
Confession was good for the soul. To express repentance was to escape damnation.   
  
Unfortunately for the two of them, that required some feeling of contrition. And shame was something Peter and Claire Petrelli had abandoned long, long ago.   
  
“Peter, come here.”  
  
Striding toward her with soundless footsteps, Peter obeyed.   
  
_Peace be with you, and also with you.  
_  
She touched her hands to his skin, running her fingers along the subtle musculature of his chest, her fingertips brushing along the crisp lines of dark hair tracing down his torso. At her touch, Peter struggled to remain still, to ignore the growing of the intensity of the heat quickly growing inside, the sparks she ignited with just the simplest of contact.   
  
The intimacy to be found in the touch was profound, as he watched her in mesmerized awe.  
  
He saw an old sadness creep into her eyes, and he raised his hand to brush his thumb against her cheek, chasing away the negative emotion with his touch. Her hands were now splayed across his back, their motion stroking against the tense muscles, and her proximity was closer than ever. Her hands were soft against his skin, and Peter swallowed hard. He fixed his eyes on hers, their hazel-brown provocatively dark.  
  
“Sweetheart, do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?”  
  
Claire shivered slightly, the husky quality of his voice against her ear oddly thrilling as his warm breath danced across her skin. “I’ve missed you too. Peter…please…”  
  
In response to the wordless plea, he gave in to what they both desired so strongly, crushing his mouth over hers with his strange mixture of gentleness and ardor.  
  
His hands rested at her hips, pulled her closer as his arms locked around her, lifting her once more as he deepened the kiss, stifling a groan as her hands stroked his chest and arms in feather-light caresses.  
  
He pulled back, wonderfully breathless, and her forehead rested against his, her eyes closed and her face flushed with an endearing blush. Without hesitation, he swept her into his arms, and carried her bridal-style to deposit her gently in center of the bed.  
  
He leaned over her, and kissed her once more, loosening the buttons of her blouse to examine more of the slight body hidden beneath the garments. Hunger rang through him, for touch, for skin-to-skin contact, combining with awe for the sheer beauty of her.  
  
He ran his hands over silken skin, the angle of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the gentle slope of her back. He made quick work of the remaining clothing, and her body he worshipped, stroked, caressed, explored.  
  
Passion, want, desire, all of them coursed through him in a tumultuous storm as he leaned over her. The heat was nearly unbearable, the ache inside consuming him, but he hesitated still. It had been so long, agonizingly long, but soothing away his fears, her hands reached, cupping his face, and brought his mouth to hers.  
  
As he sank into her, his body sang with sensation, the heady ecstasy overwhelming as instinct took precedence and he began to move over her. Their rhythm was slow and steady as a dance, the joining of their bodies speaking more than they could ever express in words.   
  
Exerted breaths mingled between them, their cadence of the heartbeats pounding in unison, bodies entwining so tightly he felt he could imprint himself into her right then and there. He wanted so badly to find a place for himself in her heart, be sheltered there, never having to leave the warmth of her body.   
  
His senses dulled as the sweet pain of release caused his body to jerk and tense, her name a hoarse gasp ripping from his throat, as the very foundation of his world was shaken, the very depths of his soul trembling in the aftermath of climax, shaking him to the deepest core. He felt her follow him a moment later, in that gravity-defying freefall where heaven and earth submerged and left them soaring.  
  
They lay together, limbs hopelessly entwined, bodies held joined and held tightly in the embrace of unyielding arms. His mind still foggy, he quietly whispered into her ear how much he loved her, pressing his lips against her temple.  
  
“Peter?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
She slid his arms around his neck, kissing his neck, his jaw, his lips. “Again? Please? I don’t want to feel anything but you…not tonight…”  
  
Unable to the words he needed, Peter only nodded and as he began to move once more, a slow, yielding rocking, he wished, idly, hopelessly, wished, that he never had to stop, that he could love her completely and eternally and never have to see the coming of the dawn.  
  
And then she was gazing at him through beautifully hooded eyes, and he was rolling onto his back, hands splayed against her hips as she began to ride him, taking them back into the throes of lovemaking once again.   
  
“I love you.”  
  
He’d never before hated the sight of the sun.   
  
_Glory be._   
  
+++  
  
“Come in.”  
  
The commanding voice was loud and booming, steely and authoritative in a way that left Peter tremulous, much to his shame. Swallowing hard, he pushed open the heavy oaken door leading into Nathan’s study, taking in the sight of his older brother sitting behind a large, maple-wood desk once belonging to their father.   
  
Nathan’s eyes were hard as they locked on Peter, watching him over the rim of the whiskey glass the elder Petrelli was drinking from. Peter took a seat in the wing-backed chair across from his brother.   
  
“Want a drink?” Nathan questioned, pouring himself a fresh drink from the sifter at his elbow.   
  
“No thanks. Won’t do me any good, anyway.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Nothing,” he dubiously eyed the glass in Nathan’s hand, “How many of those have you had?”  
  
His expression devoid of feeling, Nathan answered, “Three.”  
  
Peter bared his teeth into a humorless smile. It was barely noon.   
  
Taking a hearty draught of the liquor, Nathan continued, “I think I can speak for us all when I say if that boy dares to show his face again around this family, the consequences will be dire.”  
  
Peter snorted derisively, “Claire’s smart enough to handle it. I might not have liked the idiot, but I wanted her to be happy.”  
  
Arching an eyebrow, “Is that all it was?”  
  
“What are you talking about?” wincing at the bite to his own tone, Peter averted his eyes to the floor, praying the hardwood finishing would open up and swallow him.   
  
“Defensive already? I’m telling you now, Pete, I’d believe my own blood any day over a stupid little shit like Fitzpatrick. But this is heavier than anything we’ve ever faced before, Peter. No one would make an accusation that serious without some basis.”  
  
“Nathan…”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Peter’s head shot up, taking in the glazed look in his brother’s eyes, the clenched jaw, “Why what?”  
  
“Don’t play coy with me. I want an answer!!! Why her, why my own goddamned daughter?”  
  
“I-“  
  
“Don’t lie to me,” Nathan looked his brother hard in the eye, intent on seeing into his very soul, “Never fucking lie to me, little brother.”  
  
“…it’s not something I could help…”  
  
“Of course you could. You knew it’s wrong. You ought to the mature one in this situation.”  
  
“I can’t help how I feel about her, Nathan.”  
  
“How far is this gone? God knows we’ll need damage control. If the press caught wind of this…”  
  
Peter’s lips drew back into a bitter frown, “Is that all you care about? What the scandal might do to your career?”  
  
His eyes flaming, Nathan rose to his feet, standing over the younger man as he planted his hand firmly on his desk, “You make it sound like I ought to have reason to worry. How far has this gone, Peter?”  
  
The moment Peter dropped his eyes, ashamed, the liquor glass flew against the wall and shattered, Nathan rounding around the desk and heading for the younger Petrelli, Peter backing away with his hands raised defensively.   
  
“Nathan, come on, calm down. Let’s talk about this.”  
  
Nathan took a swing at him, and Peter disappeared.   
  
It was time for some damage control.   
  
Five minutes later, Nathan had ordered his personal car around, headed straight for Lower Manhattan.   
  
+++  
  
Claire had left the apartment two hours before Peter even awoke, intent on speaking to her bio-father in hopes of clearing the air before he talked to Peter that afternoon. The one who met her at the door, one of her least favored people in the world, happened to be the first family member she saw.   
  
Angela Petrelli’s gaze was frosty as ever, scornfully looking her up and down, “You have some nerve showing up here.”  
  
Ignoring her, Claire tried in vain to look beyond her into the house, “Is Nathan here? I need to talk to him.”  
  
“He’s having breakfast with his family,” Claire winced at the insult, but bit her tongue against retort as her grandmother continued, “The children who haven’t yet shamed him beyond compare.”  
  
Claire glared, but Angela shot forward, “I saw this coming, the way you dared to look at my boy, that tension you had between you. Disgusting really, but I thought Peter would be mature enough to handle the situation. Obviously I overestimated him yet again. Never was good enough to live up to his upbringing.”  
  
“You have no right to talk about him that way-“  
  
“I think I do. I reared the boy, after all. But you,” pure, venomous disgust practically dripping from her voice, “It’s like they say in dog breeding. If there’s a problem with the bitch, there’s a problem with the whelp, no matter how good the sire. Trash is all you are, just like your mother.”  
  
“Ma, who’s at the door?”  
  
Hearing Nathan’s voice and watching the anger on Claire’s face grow to stricken shock, Angela gave a smile of self-satisfaction as she responded to her eldest, “No one important, dear.”  
  
As she slammed the door in her granddaughter’s face, it was all Claire could do not to burst into tears right then and there.

 


	24. Le Amour

“Claire, honey, you alright?”  
  
Claire looked up at the slender hand resting against her shoulder to see Niki standing before her, forcing a wan smile in response to her friend’s concerned expression. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just had a long night.”  
  
Niki smiled gently, “You do look exhausted. You didn’t have to come out if you weren’t up to it.”  
  
Claire let her eyes stray over those assembled around Isaac’s studio, friends closer than the family she was coming so close to losing. Feeling her gaze, Ando winked at her, Hiro waved, D.L. grinned and Matt offered her a hesitant smile, one that grew as she returned it.   
  
Watching the friends interact, she felt more like an bystander than a participant- more out of place then she’d felt in years- wondering idly they would forsake her in the same fashion the Petrellis had the moment her and Peter’s secret came to light.   
  
“No. It’s New Year. There isn’t anywhere I would rather be.”  
  
Niki smiled again, opening her mouth to speak when suddenly the door suddenly crashed open, a very harried looking Nathan appearing in the threshold. Claire’s heart sank the moment she saw him- she had a good idea of why he was there.   
  
She said nothing, watching Isaac approach him warily, eyeing the Petrelli strangely, “Congressman? You alright?”  
  
“Where are they?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Nathan’s eyes narrowed, the flash of temper dangerous as Claire had ever seen him, “Paintings. Show me what you’ve painted that you didn’t want us to see. The ones pertaining to my dear, dysfunctional family.”  
  
Isaac paled, and Claire stepped between the two of them, “Nathan.”  
  
“Stay out of this, Claire. You’ve already caused me enough grief.”  
  
Reading something in his venomous tone, she stared at him, fearful, “Nathan, where’s Peter? What happened when he went to see you?”  
  
Nathan’s lips curled and he threw his daughter a disgusted look, “You already know what happened.”  
  
“…you know…”  
  
“As if I wouldn’t already.”  
  
“Nathan, please…”  
  
“Enough! I’ve had enough of the pleas for understanding, from the both of you. This is so far beyond my comprehension, I can’t even begin to process it. Do you have any idea what you two have done to this family, Claire?”  
  
Ashamed, Claire felt progressively smaller under her bio-father’s tirade, backing away from the imposing hulk of his overbearing body. Watching actual fear cross over the young woman’s features, Isaac stepped between once more, holding up a hand to interrupt.   
  
“You mentioned paintings, Mr. Petrelli?”  
  
“You know which ones, Mendez.”  
  
Isaac squared his shoulders, further shielding Claire behind him even as he cast her an apologetic glance, “I know what you’re talking about. The bedroom, in the back of the closet, the paneling opens up.”  
  
Nathan stared him down for a long moment and then nodded, disappearing into the back room. Slumping back with relief, Isaac’s arms went out to catch her, holding her balance. Claire closed her eyes, her voice trembling, “Isaac?”  
  
“I’m sorry, Claire.”  
  
“How many?”  
  
Sighing resignedly, his response had her heart plummeting, “I lost count a long time ago.”  
  
“…no…”  
  
Before the single syllable had even fell from her lips, Peter suddenly materialized before them, looking, frowning and stressed. “Claire.”  
  
“Peter.”  
  
His eyes fell on Isaac’s arms holding her steady and they narrowed, a familiar emotion clouding his face. Claire felt a stab of resentment at that- even in such a dire situation, he was still irrational enough to get jealous.   
  
She stepped out of Isaac’s embrace, resisting the urge to roll her eyes as her lover visibly relaxed, “Claire, I’ve looked everywhere for you. The apartment, Niki’s place, any I could think of…this was my last stop.”  
  
“Nathan…”  
  
“Yes, Nathan. I had to find you, to warn you. This morning-“  
  
“No, Peter. Nathan- he’s-”  
  
“Here. In the flesh, little brother.”  
  
Peter stiffened at the sound of his brother’s voice, watching tentatively as the older man stepped out of Isaac’s bedroom, a canvas held in his hands. “N-Nathan.”  
  
Nathan bared his teeth into a poor resemblance of a smile. “Yes, Pete, Nathan.”  
  
With a sudden flick of his hands, he sent the painting flying to the floor, rushing toward Peter in the chaos of the distraction, grabbing the unresisting man by his shirt labels and hauling him against the wall.   
  
“Nathan!”  
  
“Congressman!”  
  
“Petrelli, knock it off!”  
  
“Mr. Petrelli, that’s really not necessary.”  
  
Pinning him by his collar, ignoring the protests coming from the assembled company, gesturing vehemently toward the painting on the floor, Nathan had his brother’s full attention, “This is what I get, after everything I’ve given you. Haven’t I been a descent brother? Haven’t I put up with all your stupid antics? Cleaned up your mistakes?”  
  
Face to face, he hissed into the shuttered expression facing him, digging for some reaction other than surrender, “This is what I get? You sick bastard, this is what I get in return!!!!”  
  
He caught Claire’s eye over Nathan’s shoulder, following her gaze to the sprawled-out canvas.   
  
It was a familiar scene, once their greatest pleasure and now their greatest horror. Two naked forms sprawled out against the familiar background of his bedroom, limbs entwining in a mix of sun-kissed and olive-hued flesh, blatant against crisp black sheets.   
  
A woman’s head thrown back, scattering golden curls, her face one of contorted pleasure as she clutched at the back of the man above her, jet-black hair falling forward to shield his face as he braced his weight on either side of them, moving above her. A constant scene, their stolen time together- a familiar scene, their clandestine lovemaking- an exposed scene, the unveiling of their most desperate secret.   
  
Snapping out of her stupor, Claire averted her eyes from her lover, turned a hesitant stare on the others in the room, unable to discern anything more than horrified shock and stunned silence.   
  
Somewhere among the chaos, there was a knock at the door and Isaac left to answer it, internally praying to find some damage control on the other side as he left the tension-filled room.   
  
“How long?” Dropping his hands from his brother’s neck, Nathan’s eyes swung to his daughter, demanding an answer, “How long?”  
  
“Not long,” Claire said softly, turning her face away as the lie slipped from her lips, uneasy and trembling even to her own ears.   
  
“Don’t lie to me.”  
  
Matt’s head shot up as he heard the truth echoing in both Peter and Claire’s minds, stunned disbelief blanketing his face, catching Peter’s attention enough that his friend shot him a sharp look, silencing him.   
  
Seven years, one month, and sixteen days exactly. Dear God.   
  
Before anyone else could say anything else, Nathan’s anger soon found a new focus as Isaac returned, followed by a guilty, exhausted Shane Fitzpatrick.   
  
“Son of a bitch.”  
  
“Little shit.”  
  
Both Petrelli brothers stepped forward, intent on their target, but Matt and D.L. exchanged silent looks, striding toward them to restrain if necessary. Claire put herself in the middle of the men, “Stop! Stop this, now!!”  
  
Peter obeyed, though he still glared sullenly at the young man standing vulnerably before everyone, Nathan a little more resistant, pulled back by the others as he finally relented. Claire rounded on her fiancée, holding out to him an outstretched palm, her engagement ring front row and center. “Is this what you came for?”  
  
Shane reached for the small ring, delicately fingering the jewelry as he gazed at her abashedly, “Claire, I came to apologize. I had no right-”  
  
“You’re right, you had no right. Not to pull something like that. As guilty as I might be, that was…that was too much, Shane. You have no right to be here. I have nothing to say to you.”  
  
Swallowing hard, Shane dazedly glanced around the room, eyes straying to the bewildered Mohinder, then back to Claire, “Please, Claire, just hear me out. At least to appease myself.”  
  
“I asked you to go.”  
  
Guilt pulsing through him, tearing and potent, the moment Claire turned away from him, dismissing his presence, he grabbed for her arm, frantic for her to listen to his apologies, “Claire, please.”  
  
His emotion running high, charging through him, reacting instantly to the heightened feelings, the tension radiating from Claire, and his ability flared uncontrollably.   
  
The power reached out, settling over her, meshing with her being, her heart, her mind, pulling and sifting, heightening the memories, the feelings, at the forefront of her mind, giving them projection. Her mind’s eye formed a wickedly vivid, nearly tangible picture of Peter, locking on to it, and the power washed over all those assembled.   
  
The feelings, the memories, became palpable as the very air around them.   
  
++  
  
Crashing into one another in the hallway in Odessa.   
  
The first time their eyes met.   
  
++  
  
“Hey, it gets better.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Life after high school. It gets a lot better.”  
  
++  
  
Not able to turn and run as he had requested without learning the name of the man working so hard to save her.   
  
“What’s your name?”   
  
“Peter.”   
  
“I’m Claire.”  
  
++  
  
“You’re totally my hero.”  
  
Dazed smiles, relief and admiration, pretty girl.   
  
++  
  
The time Claude shoved him off a high-riser. “…she's this sweet kid. Sad little smile, and she just...you were wrong. I don't have to cut her out. I have to remember her! How--how she made me feel…”  
  
++

“Claire, go back to bed.”  
  
Desire. Lust. Guilt. Temptation. Heat. Longing.   
  
“What if I don’t want to take it back?”  
  
Making love for the first time.   
  
“I promise, Nathan. I’ll get your daughter home safe.”  
  
The reality of Peter’s deception.   
  
++  
  
Pain. Shame. Guilt.   
  
“If I could give what I want, I would be on my knees, begging you to forgive me.”  
  
“I can forgive, Peter, but I can’t forget.”  
  
Sorrow. Remorse. The faintest gleam of hope.   
  
“You have a beautiful smile, Claire. I’m sorry I took it from you.”  
  
“You’ll see it again…just give it time.”  
  
++  
  
Fear of losing him.   
  
“Promise me.”  
  
“You can’t die on me…I won’t let you.”  
  
Nearly doing so.   
  
“I couldn’t keep my promise.”  
  
“I’m glad you didn’t.”

  
++  
  
“Are you scared?”  
  
The night before she left for London.   
  
“Scared…? Of what?”  
  
“Feeling like that.”  
  
“No. It’s you.”  
  
“…it scares me…it scares the hell out of me…”  
  
Making love to him, without any false pretenses or lies, without guilt or inhibition, a brand new first time.   
  
“Help me not be so scared…”  
  
++  
  
Forbidden temptation. Giving in, surrendering to the sin.   
  
“If we do this, we’ll have to be careful. No one- absolutely no one- can ever find out.”  
  
“I know…”  
  
“We’ll always have to be a secret, sweetheart. Can you handle that? We can’t ever be normal…”  
  
“If it means being with you…I can handle anything.”  
  
++  
  
“You have always been Claire. Family, friends, lovers…that’s all I need to know.”  
  
“You are a gentle heart, Peter Petrelli…never change.”  
  
Reaffirming their bond.   
  
“There are so many things I want you to have, so many beautiful things that I want to give to you. Like a snowflake. But no matter how I reach more it, or long for it, it just melts away in my hand…”  
  
Longing for more.  
  
“I want to be able to walk down the street no matter where we are, holding your hand. I want to be able to wake up beside you every morning, not just when we know we’re alone. I want to be able to take you to family dinners as my date, not a relative. I want to be with you for real, Peter.”  
  
++  
  
Graduation night. Peter’s pocketwatch. Matt’s discovery. His ultimatum.   
  
“If this doesn’t end, Pete…it’ll destroy you both. Either you back off, or I’ll have to go to Nathan. You let that be the option, it’ll tear your family apart, man. And Claire…”  
  
Peter’s solution. “…he knows…”  
  
“…you’ll lose your family, Claire, and I can’t do that to you. I’m not naïve enough to make me your only choice. There’s too much at risk, sweetheart, and I’ll be damned if I let it happen. I’d rather be a selfish bastard than hurt you like that…”  
  
“Dammit, Peter. You’re already hurting me!”  
  
++

Toeing the line.   
  
“You shouldn’t be doing that.”  
  
“When have we ever done what we should?”  
  
Incapable of staying apart, no matter how they fought.   
  
“I love you, you know.”  
  
“I know, sweetheart.   
  
Knowing their condemnation was near, inevitable, unavoidable.   
  
“Sweetheart, do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?”  
  
“I’ve missed you too. Peter…please…”  
  
++  
  
Desire. Lust. Guilt. Temptation. Heat. Longing.   
  
Affection. Passion. Comfort. Joy. Sorrow. Pain.   
  
Playful moments; passionate lovemaking; solemn contemplations and thoughtful conversation; sharing secrets and enjoying the simple pleasures; hurting and aching without one another, reveling in the happiness of the other’s company.   
  
Love. In the purest, most basic sense of the word.


	25. Crash and Burn

There was an eerie, echoing silence speaking volumes as Claire finally came to. Tears blurred her vision, her body trembling as she wretched away from Shane, wrapping her arms around herself protectively.   
  
Shane was shaking himself, a little drained from the power surge, his face ashen with regret as he looked at Claire, “Claire…God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…When the feelings are strong, sometimes I can’t control…I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Is that your power?”  
  
He nodded numbly, miserably mumbling, “I connect with people, access the memories and emotions they’re feeling the strongest. We were both so on edge, it just flared up without my being able to stop it.”  
  
Claire said nothing at first, carefully stepping toward him with a composed expression, her eyes thoughtful as she looked him over. Shane stood still, watching her approach warily. She watched him for a long moment, reaching out to lightly touch her fingers to his face, delicately tracing the subtle definition of his cheekbone.   
  
She leaned in, her eyes locking on Shane’s, and she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, whispering her goodbye into his ear. He let his eyes close, his lips parting to return the sentiment, and he reached out to briefly brush her cheek, taking his leave as he backed out of the room, the door closing quietly behind him a few moments later.   
  
Nathan and Peter appeared at a stand-still as they stared each other down, neither willing to yield until they seemed to come to some strained understanding, Nathan backing away after giving his brother one last long, indiscernible look.   
  
He made his way steadily to Claire’s side, letting out a regretful sigh and another of those strange looks before unexpectedly pressing a kiss to her hair, briefly touching his hand to her shoulder.   
  
Still recovering from her shock at the sudden gesture, it was only at the dimmest recesses of her awareness that she heard the slamming door that signaled Nathan’s dismissal from the situation.   
  
Claire sharply inhaled, exhaling in an unsteady huff, seeking somehow to center herself into some semblance of composure.   
  
“Claire.”  
  
Niki was the first to speak, and as Claire settled her eyes bashfully on the other woman, her expression was tender, tears in her own eyes. Drawn by the elder into a reassuring embrace, Claire fell into the hug, letting silent tears fall as she burrowed her face into Niki’s shoulder, the older blonde whispering quiet reassurances into her hair.   
  
“It’s real, isn’t it?” Niki asked her, her tone only audible to Claire.   
  
After a few minutes, Claire pulled back, managing a wane smile as she sought to wipe away her tears. “Real?”  
  
“Your feelings.”  
  
Claire smiled softly, sadly, “More real than anything else in my life.”  
  
“That I can see,” Niki leaned in, kissed Claire’s forehead. Claire closed her eyes briefly, touched by the motherly gesture…something that stirred that ever-constant ache for the affectionate family she’d known for so long…  
  
“Sweetheart.”  
  
The voice was hoarse enough with rough quality for her not to recognize it at first, but the endearment was unmistakable. “Peter.”  
  
She could see him in her mind’s eye, ever-present in her head; faded from the group like a phantom, pressed back against a far wall, several feet between him and the other men assembled in the room. Eyes yet to open as fatigue washed over her, she sighed, turning her face in the direction, “You’d call me that now?”  
  
“What’s there left to hide?” came his wry reply, soft and tired, as she felt the warmth of him beside her, arms closing around her, and she fell into the embrace, exhausted. He pressed his lips to her brow. “Let me take you home.”  
  
She shook her head, opening her eyes to look up at him as she disengaged from his hug, “No, it’s fine. I’ll take a cab.”  
  
“I know I’m not your favorite person right now, but you’re tired. I can get you there quicker.”  
  
Hearing something in his tone, she frowned, lips pursing with concern, “What makes you think I’m angry with you?”  
  
He offered her a weak smile, “You have every right to be.”  
  
She stared, at first, with incomprehension, eyes widening as realization hit. The deception surrounding their first time together, the rocky start to their affair…it all led back to Peter…at least in his own mind.   
  
Damn martyr complex.   
  
Claire opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, a soft voice tentatively interrupted, “Cheerleader Claire? Peter-kun?”  
  
Claire tore her eyes away from her lover to glance at Hiro, who had stepped forward, hesitantly smiling, “Cheerleader Claire need to go home? I can take you there.”  
  
“Really, Hiro? I’d really appreciate it.”   
  
Hiro beamed proudly, and then nodded vigorously in response. Peter frowned, unhappy, and Claire turned her attention back to him, leaning upward to plant a kiss on his mouth right then and there.   
  
Gun-shy from their present company, he was still as stone for a long moment, but then began to softly respond as Claire gently stroked his arm, skimming downward to find his hand.   
  
They parted, fingering interlacing as Claire leaned up to whisper in his ear, Peter nodding a second later with a quick kiss to her temple. Peter silently watched her step to Hiro, the Japanese man’s arms wrap around her shoulders, and then the two figures flickering out.   
  
Rubbing his head tiredly, Peter wordlessly let his eyes travel over the assembled company, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited impatiently for Hiro to return. The other hero arrived a moment later, reappearing in a blur of movement, catching Peter’s eye and nodding in response to his silent question.   
  
Peter nodded to his friends, exchanged a significant look with both Matt and Niki, and then he teleported himself, only one destination firmly in his mind.   
  
Claire had said to come to her…who was he to resist?  
  
++  
  
She was waiting for him, leaning against the penthouse’s mantel, her head bowed and eyes downcast, a blanket draped around her lithe frame. Peter whispered her name, watching green eyes fall on him and he stepped toward her. So sad, so lovely, so utterly, painfully beautiful.   
  
Looking around his own apartment, Peter couldn’t help but question her decision, “What made you come here?”  
  
“Hiro can keep a secret.”  
  
“I think there’s no such thing anymore,” he replied dryly, cocking his head as he watched her quietly.   
  
Her shoulders trembled slightly, a dead give-away despite her calm exterior, “Does it even matter anymore?”  
  
He said nothing about that morning, bending downward to start the artificial fire in the hearth. It would be far too foreign to have the real thing in New York City, he supposed, carefully aiming a comment at her with both of them seeming distracted, “You left awful early this morning.”  
  
“Couldn’t sleep.”  
  
“What’d they say to you, sweetheart?”  
  
He stood; moving passed her to close the drapes along the window, letting the shadowed room only be a-lit by the dim glow of firelight. Despite the hour, the January temperature was a chilling, palpable thing.   
  
“It doesn’t matter,” she repeated, tensing beneath his hands on her shoulders.   
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Please,” he moved her hair, whispering kisses against the sensitive skin of her nape.   
  
“No,” she reaffirmed despite the waver to her voice and he relented, giving in so not to upset her further.   
  
He draped an arm around her waist, pulling her to lean against him, her back to his chest, and as she released a soft sigh, he felt her slowly relax against him. He combed a hand through her hair, softly stroked her side, slipping beneath her blouse to touch that deliciously smooth skin he ached so much to feel.   
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
He nuzzled against her cheek, his stubble a light, teasing scratch, “Don’t you know by now? It’s all about you…just you, sweetheart. All I am, is for you.”  
  
“Peter,” she reached back to cup his face as he kissed her neck, his fingers tracing tantalizing patterns along her abdomen. Her back arched, pressing back against him, her body molding into his, hunger ringing through him, sharp and potent.   
  
“Pe-ter!” the moan of his name, craning her head back to kiss him, the heat of her mouth and soft silk of her lips every last bit of heaven he could ever ask for.   
  
He pulled back reluctantly, Claire watching him wordlessly as he drew the blanket away from her, tossing it across the room to the loveseat. Taking her hand, he walked backward toward it, never letting his eyes stray from hers.   
  
It was moments like this that had Claire Petrelli falling in love with him all over again.   
  
He lay on his side next to her, facing her as he reached out, touching his fingers to the curve of her elbow and then slowly skimming them upward, coming to rest at her wrist to feel the wildly fluttering pulse there. Slowly, not taking his eyes off hers, he lowered his mouth to the same place, a strange thrill ringing through him as he felt the erratic pulsing beneath his lips.   
  
She watched him, enthralled by the strange sensuality of it all, the pleasurable shiver that rang through her at his touch, the intoxicating heat of his mouth. This was the difference, the distinctive line between love and everything else.   
  
She could never, never find this with anyone else…it was him, always him…only him.   
  
The slow, sensual, careful way they could take things, things they only thought they knew about each other seeming new and exciting, ready to be rediscovered, dozens of things they never knew waiting to be explored.   
  
Like the strange contrast of sensation that washed over her as he rubbed his cheek against her hand, the paradox created in the way the roughness of his skin, created by the light stubble along his jaw, differed to the softness of his lips as he brushed them delicately against the open palm she laid against the side of his face.   
  
Or the silky feel of his hair as she combed her fingers through it, or the intensity that sparked in his eyes as he looked at her, darkened with desire and a deeper, thicker emotion she now knew to be love.   
  
He kissed her, finally, and she was lost, drowning in sensual euphoria…lost to everything but him, his touch, his body, his very presence.   
  
They took their time, clothes stripped away piece by piece, hands questing and exploring every enticing inch of skin exposed, and finally, finally, their bodies entwined, pressing close, warming each other with their heat.   
  
She was beautiful in the firelight, her hair the color of molten flame- skin a sun-kissed gold against the burgundy hue of the couch as he leaned her back against it. Her legs wrapped around him, entangling with his as he instinctively rocked against her, pressing into the enticing heat of her and releasing a groan of his own at the intimate contact.   
  
He lowered his head to nibble at her shoulder, her small hands pushing and pulling at his shirt- his only remaining piece of clothing- Peter only reluctantly pulling back enough to shed the garment before he lowered himself to her once more, body covering hers like a human blanket.   
  
She stroked his shoulders, back and hips with gentle, butterfly-kiss touches, both stirring and soothing him as he lazily kissed her, languidly tasting her, savoring, reveling in smoldering sensuality.   
  
Finally drawing enough strength to leave her mouth, he shifted his attention to exploring her, moving lower to taste the valley between her breasts. He dragged his tongue along the skin, taking a nipple into his mouth and gently suckled, taking in every reaction with pleasure as she moved restlessly against him, fingers tangled in his hair, nails digging into his scalp.   
  
He found himself nearly shaking from the intensity of the feeling roaring through him, his hands stroking a path down the flat of her stomach, lower still until he reached her inner thighs and eased them apart, his nose brushing the soft triangle of curls shielding her sex.   
  
His tongue rubbed against her, teasing and caressing, Claire arching against his mouth in desperation for more, “Oh, God.”  
  
He smiled against her thigh, pressed a few stray kiss against her hip and then eased a finger inside her, “Just me, sweetheart.”  
  
Her first climax shocked them both, unexpectedly taking her by storm, and she whimpered against the pain-pleasure of the release, fingers digging hard into his shoulders. Peter soothing caressed her hip, taking advantage of her high to bring her up again despite her weak protests. 

Regret, prayer, praise, pleading…she wasn’t sure what it was she was giving, but it was his name spilling through her lips in a breathless, steady mantra…  
  
His fingers worked steadily within her to bring her back to the edge and over, his mouth trailing wet kisses along her stomach. A touch of his thumb against her clit, his tongue grazing against a breast, and she came apart in his arms.   
  
++  
  
“You’re an evil, evil…” a sigh, a languid kiss to his shoulder, “Wonderful man.”  
  
Peter laughed at the first words she spoke afterward, stopping her hand as she reached for the arousal between his legs. “You don’t want…?”  
  
“Later.” He smiled, lifting her hand to his lips, kissing each and every fingertip. “You’re exhausted, sweetheart. Get some rest.”  
  
He lay back and settled her against his side, draping the blanket he found against the back of the sofa over their naked forms. She was lulled to sleep in no time, her breath steady and deep as she nestled against his shoulder, each exhalation a teasing caress across his skin.   
  
Peter moved carefully so not to stir her, extracting himself from the couch. He brushed a hand against her cheek, tucking the blanket back around her with a fond smile.   
  
As he passed his eye caught the papers resting on an inside table, a collection of job offers that had been sent to him over the last two months. He frowned as he skimmed through a couple and sighed, making a mental note to call in airport in the morning…check on available flights to Seattle.   
  
Grimacing, he headed to the bathroom. At least some painful things about love were easily fixable.   
  
Broken hearts were another matter all together.


	26. Petrelli Puzzle

It was the strangest sense of déjà vu, standing there watching painted cameos of his life with Claire come to life on canvas, vividly detailed and painfully reality down to every color and stroke.   
  
The two of them standing the alleyway in Odessa, all those years ago, the emotions- shock, guilty pleasure- etched across his expression just as palpable now as it was then; as she threw her arms around him, so excited to see him, so young, so naively vulnerable.   
  
Standing together in the dark, in the family gardens…his tears and his regret, her compassion despite his deception, her promise that he would see that stolen smile in time.   
  
The unexpected kiss on his balcony the night before she was bound for London, his mental struggle and easy surrender to her want for one more night before she put an ocean between them.   
  
Her old bedroom- once his own- at the mansion, making love right against the door, her father and the rest of the family right down the hall.   
  
Countless kisses and embraces, spending time together- watching movies, dancing in his living room, Peter reading her to sleep. Numerous depictions of their lovemaking, tangles of limbs against his black sheets, her head thrown back with glorious ecstasy.   
  
Naked bodies upon his couch, hair falling across her face, his head between her legs.   
  
Moving above…moving within her, Claire holding him so close he couldn’t differentiate one from the other, so much he was certain that any moment the two forms would meld into one.   
  
“How many in all?” even to his own ears, Peter’s voice was wavering and unsteady.   
  
“Thirty-seven,” was Isaac Mendez’s reply, the artist having been standing solemnly in the corner for the past hour, watching the empathy pace and murmur to himself. Restless eyes constantly flew back to the assembled paintings depicting every dark secret he possessed.   
  
“Thirty-seven,” Peter repeated flatly, his eyes closing with tired resignation.   
  
“What do you want from me, Peter?”  
  
“I don’t we don’t exactly like each other, don’t see eye-to-eye, but I need a favor.”  
  
Isaac arched an eyebrow, “What kind of favor?”  
  
His eyes still on the paintings, Peter would have seemed oblivious to anything else if not for his response a few moments later, “It’s obvious you can keep a secret, Isaac. I need you to keep one of mine.”  
  
++  
  
She lay naked on the bed in the room they had reserved in fear of discovery at their respective apartments, not bothering to cover up as she listened to the sound of him starting the shower in the neighboring bathroom.   
  
She ran her fingers idly over the silken texture of the sheets smooth and cool against her skin, and though the hotel was the ritzy sort, she knew the building personnel not to be foolishly extravagant enough for the material to be real silk.   
  
She pondered for a moment, and remembered the manager boasting about…something she couldn’t quite remember…she thought perhaps Egyptian cotton. Not that it really mattered, they never really got much sleep in favor of other activities.   
  
She heard the sound of the city several floors below and she stretched back lazily, closing her eyes to imagine some of the amazing sights she had seen from their cab the day before.   
  
He had utilized Hiro’s transporting power…and taken them to Italy.   
  
Rome, in all its majesty, was stretched out below them, but the biggest tourism she had to savor was the unfamiliar ceilings, and perhaps, if they were feeling adventurous, the patterns of the bedspreads beneath their entwining bodies.   
  
She stared at the ceiling, wondering how they have come to this. She is barely twenty-four years old, and for nearly a decade, one man has led her down this path. She remembered a time when they were happier, so long ago in the past but she still recalls the clicking staccato of whirling ceiling fans and the groaning protest of beds as they stole away from the rest of the world.   
  
The way the words, “I love you”, were always rolling off his tongue, smooth as silk and sweet as honey, the trips down the coast to spend a weekend at the beach or a trip to the mountains, picnics in the park and Saturdays at the amusement park.   
  
She remembered the little poems stuck in her mailbox and the roses delivered to her office, the cards always signing in his bold, masculine script, “From Your Secret Admirer.” The walks in the park, the lunches he brought to her office in faux uncle-niece bonding, the dinners he made and the impromptu dancing in his living room.   
  
But he was a secret, he always had been from the very first stolen kiss to the first fumbling toward ecstasy that consisted of the two of them, and a passion neither could deny.  
  
She remembered him, broody and shy, confident and sweet, a naïve but learned man whose golden heart warmed her with just a simple smile or joke between close friends. Even their clandestine affair had not diminished that light, and still she had been drawn to it like a moth to a flame.   
  
But the years had passed; secrets began to break them inside, smothering their dreams to lead lives that were never quite complete.   
  
Slowly, she lost parts of the gentle man she had fallen for, replaced by the cynical shell struggling to wash away the stench of sex and guilt from his body.   
  
She wasn’t sixteen anymore; it wasn’t just secrets driving a wedge between them.   
  
She heard him rustling around, and then he stepped back out onto the plush carpet of the hotel sweet, his dark hair neatly combed and his slacks perfectly pressed, knotting up a tie expertly as his gaze landed on her. He frowned, his brow, furrowed from the severity of the expression, though it was a common one for him these days.   
  
Three days since he’d brought them halfway around the globe and they hadn’t left the bedroom. A mandatory meeting at the hospital rescheduled for later that afternoon, and they were to catch a redeye flight back to New York- Peter’s mind too convoluted to access his abilities. She was sure the failure still irked at him.   
  
“Why aren’t you dressed? Our flight leaves in two hours,” he snapped, not really paying attention as he paused by the vanity mirror, checking his hair and smoothing out imaginary wrinkles from his shirt, adjusting his collar.   
  
If possible, his frown only deepened, as if displeased with the man reflected back at him. She wondered what it was he saw.  
  
“Peter,” she whispered softly, her voice gentle but confident.   
  
His eyes met hers through the reflective glass, as he took in the sight of blond curls tumbling around her bare shoulders, the sultry heat of her green eyes. He swallowed hard, emotion hazy in his mind- not just the lust, but something even deeper, distantly familiar, for it had been months since she had last uttered the nickname.   
  
He watched as she soundlessly rose from the bed, wrapping the sheet around her body as she padded toward him. She stopped behind him, and tentatively touched a hand to his shoulder, slowly smoothing it down his broad back.   
  
His eyes never left hers, and he swallowed hard, something inside him giving in like a collapsing dam as he whirling around, his mouth slanting over hers, crushing her tightly against his body so she could feel the hard evidence of his want against her inner thighs.   
  
They collapsed together upon the bed, his hands ripping away the sheets to feverishly run his hands over smooth, porcelain skin like silk beneath his touch, his lips at her throat, her neck, the juncture of her shoulder.   
  
She tugged at his tie, tore at his buttons, hastily ripped open the fly to his pants, and suddenly he was inside her, the fervor dying down as they suddenly stopped, neither daring to move, arms holding each other close as the room filled with the sound of their ragged, broken breathing.   
  
He felt the hot wet of tears against the fabric of his shirt, but he was not sure who it was who started first, for it was the salt on both their lips that filled his mouth, the moisture against both their faces as they moved together at an agonizingly slow pace, both their eyes slick and red with tears but unable to understand.   
  
He peppered soft kisses down her neck, whispered rootless apologies into her ear. She linked her arms around his neck, pressing her face against his throat.   
  
Overwhelming, drowning them in swells that couldn’t be denied, the passion was burning, undeniable and despite the tenderness he meant to display, it swept him away. His head buzzed with sensation, her legs locked around him and Peter lost himself.   
  
At the edge, it was her nails raking down his back, her teeth digging into his shoulder as she came that brought on his own violent completion, releasing a guttural grunt vaguely resembling her name.   
  
Despite the gentleness of their lovemaking, it was a fierce shock to the system as they lay together in a silent aftermath.   
  
He shed the rest of his clothes, lying beside her against the smooth material of the sheets, and he rolled it between his fingers as she rested against his side. “You don’t think this is silk, do you?” he questioned, cocking an eyebrow as he looked at her, causing her to laugh as she caught a hint of the old Peter in his voice, in the animated expression of his voice.   
  
“No, I don’t think it’s silk.”  
  
He nodded quietly, slipped an arm around her shoulders to pull her even closer. “Claire?”  
  
“Hmm?” she murmured drowsily.   
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“All sorts of things,” he said cryptically, kissing her forehead as a ghost of a smile played across her lips, the first true smile he’d seen in the three days since he told her about his leaving.   
  
He combed his fingers through her golden ringlets, brushed his lips against her ear. “If I said I love you…”  
  
“…would you be afraid…?” she finished for him, glancing at him hesitantly, “Would you, Peter? We’re not the same people anymore. Sometime it feels like we’re only still like this because you feel like it’s some kind of obligation.”  
  
He sighed, snorting softly as he placed his hand over her heart, another strange echo of the past. Their nostalgia that day was thick and undeniable. “Never…never…I never meant to make you feel that way. You all I’ve ever wanted…you have to believe that, sweetheart.”  
  
She nodded quietly, kissed him softly, and rested her head against his shoulder as she watched the numbers change slowly on the clock. “What about the meeting you have to get to? Won’t you be late if we don’t catch our flight?”  
  
“Meeting be damned. I’m leaving them anyway…they can do without me.”  
  
“Tell me again how I agreed to let you whisk me away from work?”  
  
“Maybe it’s just my natural charm,” he said as he winked at her, making a show of flexing his arms.   
  
She rolled her eyes, unable to help a smile. She looked out the open windowpane, studied the breathtaking city skyline, and a wistfulness blanketed her expression. “Do you ever wish this could be different? That we could go back and change things.  
  
“Every day. And I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ve been such an ass to you…”  
  
“It’s alright.”  
  
“No, it’s not okay. I just…I don’t know where the hell I went wrong. I’ve always tried so damn hard, and it never seems to be enough.”  
  
She propped herself up on her elbow, tracing her finger down his cheek as she smiled at him. “You’ve always been enough, Peter.”  
  
“I love you,” he whispered against her skin, “I love you.”  
  
“I know,” she combed her fingers through his hair, kissing him softly.   
  
“How about we stay a couple more days? We can go out tomorrow and see the sights.”  
  
“Sounds fantastic.”  
  
She tilted her head back to accept his kiss, wrapping her arms around her neck as he lowered her gently to the mattress.   
  
Sometimes, they both knew, love wasn’t always enough.   
  
++  
  
“So what is it you need, Sunshine?”  
  
D.L.’s voice broke through the silence enveloping Isaac’s studio, everyone’s eyes turning to face Claire. Claire averted her gaze, hesitant to face everyone after the blowout two weeks before.   
  
“I need to find Peter.”  
  
Matt cocked his head curiously, “You don’t know where he is?”  
  
“He didn’t tell me. But we need him here…there’s been an accident. One of my brothers, Simon, was in a crash. He took a lot of internal damage, and he needs a transplant for his liver.”  
  
“Where’s Peter come in?” Niki asked, her lips pursing with concern.   
  
“I’m guessing it has something to do with genetic matches?” Mohinder commented, his tone mild, eyes solemn as they locked on Claire.   
  
Claire nodded, tentatively continuing on, “I know none of you must want anything to do with me after what happened…but I need to find him…I just-“  
  
“Hey now, sweetie,” Niki stepped forward, reassuringly, “What makes you think that?”  
  
“Peter and I…everything that happened…”  
  
Niki shook her head, “I can’t say I completely understand it, hon, but with feelings that intense, who’s anyone to tell what’s right?”  
  
“I don’t get it either, but Sunshine,” D.L. smiled gently, “from what I can see, our golden boy made you happy. Darlin’, we just want you happy.”  
  
Mohinder looked at her over the glasses perched at the bridge of his nose, looking flustered but thoughtful, “I’ve read about cases like this, GSA and the like. It’s actually quite common, more than you would expe-,” meeting the others’ blank stares, he held up his hands helplessly, “What I mean to say is, I’m in no place to judge.”  
  
“You know where I stand,” Matt commented mildly, catching Claire’s pointed look straight in the eye.   
  
“Do I?”  
  
Matt tapped the side of his temple, giving her a soft smile, “I think so.”  
  
There was something in his eyes that reassured her, soothed all the fears and defenses that had risen up since Matt’s discovery. Though it still hurt that Matt’s proclamation had urged Peter to back away from her, there was an understanding…a gentleness in that gaze, and it was comfortingly familiar.   
  
Isaac sighed, running an uncertain hand through his hair, “I’ve had years to get used to it. Not much else I can say.”  
  
Claire blinked away tears, giving them all a warm smile, “Thank you, everyone.”  
  
“Least we could do, sweetheart.” Niki told her, giving her an encouraging smile.   
  
As Claire’s eyes closed painfully, it took her a moment to realize to realize her error, uttering Peter’s perpetual endearment for her. Claire pressed a hand to her mouth, muttered a quick apology and dashed for Isaac’s bathroom.   
  
Hearing the sounds coming from the room, Niki sighed to herself, pressing her hand to the door.   
  
She checked her watch. 9 a.m.  
  
Remembered how pale the girl had been, originally attributing the ashen pallor to the circumstances around them.   
  
Knowing the intimate details of her love-life through the memories induced by Shane’s power.   
  
The timing of her and Peter leaving Isaac’s apartment, and Peter’s disappearance five days later.   
  
The sound of a sink running came next and a few moments later the door opened once more, revealing the disheveled young woman on the other side.   
  
Niki sighed once more, resting a hand against Claire’s forehead and gently swept back her hair. “So tell me, honey, how far along are you?”


	27. Renegade Romeo

“So how do we go about this?”

Claire held up her hands helplessly in response to D.L.’s question, falling back into the chair one of the guys had gotten from her from Isaac’s kitchen/dining space. “I have no idea. That’s why I came to you guys.”

Absently, she let her eyes trail around the room, feeling the absence of the missing members of the group- with Hiro and Ando in Japan on holiday, there was a lack of joviality in the atmosphere, none of the light-heartedness the two men usually brought to the group.

Matt cocked his head curiously in her direction, his eyes sympathetic but thoughtful, “We’ll help all we can, but you’re the one that know him best.”

“And yet…it’s getting me nowhere.”

“Relax, Sunshine. You need to find him, we’ll find him.”

Niki caught Claire’s eye, the older woman’s expression solemn as Claire quickly looked away, resisting the urge to touch her hands to her middle. They both knew the real reason Claire need her lover to come home so badly.  

“Did he leave you anything?” Mohinder questioned, “Any clue to where he might be?”

Claire’s brow furrowed and she nodded curtly, withdrawing from her back-pocket a battered, paperback book. Niki stepped beside her for a closer look, eyebrows rising as she read off the title, “Romeo and Juliet.”

“He does have wit, doesn’t he?” Mohinder commented dryly, “How very fitting.”

“The boy puts us all to shame,” D.L. said with a wry smile, earning puzzled expression from the other men. He shrugged a shoulder, arching an eyebrow, “C’mon, flowers, dancing, poetry, mysterious romantic gestures; anyone else feel a little out-classed here?”

Claire blushed at his comments and Niki couldn’t help laughing softly, catching Matt’s grin and Isaac’s small smile, responding to her husband, “Maybe you can take notes, baby.”

D.L. winked at her and Mohinder cleared his throat, looking a little awkward as he addressed Claire once more, “Romance aside, is there anything special about the book? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Claire idly flipped through the pages, her fingers occasionally brushing over the handwritten words in the margins, her expression wistfully reverent and her eyes sad. “It’s the copy he used in college, filled with his notes on the story. I’ve read over them and there’s nothing that stands out. There is one thing though…”

“What’s that?”

“He highlighted one line. Just one line out of the whole book, and it’s the only thing he touched.” She flipped the book to the page, the florescent yellow left by the highlighter blatant against the faded grey page.

_“My only love sprung from my only hate.”_

++

_“How can you do this to me?”_

_Peter looked over the edge of his book to take in the slim figure sitting in the armchair, her silhouette shadowed in the corner of the hotel room. He sighed softly, setting his book aside, sitting up on the bed. “I’m not doing it to hurt you.”_

_“Odd. You seem to do a hell of a lot of that anyway.”_

_“Claire…”_

_“One of these days, Peter, your good intentions are going to be the death of me.”_

_A ghost of a cynical smile played across her lips, “If there’s anything that can kill me, you’d be the one. You tell me you want what’s best for me, and then you turn around and stomp on my heart.”_

_“I want to do what’s right.”_

_Her eyes were dark as she gazed at him, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her chin atop them. “We’ve never been in the right, Peter. You don’t seem to mind being in the wrong when you fuck me.”_

_She watched his jaw clench, nostrils flare with temper and a dull sense of satisfaction flickered through her, “You could find a better way to tell me you don’t want me anymore.”_

_“Of course I want you. I’ve wanted you since you were a damned teenager.”_

_“Yeah. I remember.”_

_She closed her eyes as she leaned her head back against the chair cushion, golden hair falling around her face like a halo. “I need you.”_

_“And I need to know you’re happy.”_

_She cocked her head, watching him thoughtfully, approaching him with soundless footsteps to come stand before him, “You make me happy.”_

_Peter started to reach for her, freezing as he thought better of it. He shook his head, dropping his hands to his sides uselessly. “Not anymore.”_

_She threw her arms up, “Impossible man. You said you’d fight to keep me. That you’d never let me go.”_

_His lips pulled to the sight in a sarcastic smirk, bitter and humorless, “Would you prefer I lock you and throw away the key?”_

_“Son of a bitch.”_

_“That’s an accurate description of Angela.”_

_“You’re hurting me worse than anyone has ever before, and you’re making a joke of it?”_

_His eyes pierced into her, and he bared his teeth into a poor resemblance of a smile, “Why are you so upset? You’ll find someone else. You had no problem moving on to the Irish boytoy the last time.”_

_The resounding crack of skin to skin was a startling sound in the quiet room, the pain against his cheek barely noticeable as she drew back her hand, hardly believing that she had dared to strike him. “You pushed me to Shane, Peter. You practically pushed me into his bed.”_

_Peter’s eyes flashed dangerously and the room began to shake, the furniture trembling, frames on the wall falling to the floor, glasses at the bar clacking together and finally shattering from the pressure. Peter shuddered violently, stillness coming back to their surroundings and Claire stood calmly before him, having experienced his loss of control before._

_Looking more predator than man, he shoved her aside, making his way to the bar, sifting through the pieces of broken glass. In the blink of the eye, he picked up a long shard and slashed it against his face, blood welling up against his olive skin and dripping down his cheek with macabre slowness._

_“Never. Mention. That. I could blind myself and it wouldn’t help get that imagery out of my head. A moment of that and I’d be on a killing mission. He wouldn’t last through the night.”_

_“You’re a fool, Peter. You’ve been my one and only. I never let him touch me.”_

_She drew up her chin, solemnly watching him drop the glass to the ground, eyes following her as she stepped into the bathroom, wetting a washcloth to clean his face. She proceeded to do just that, refusing to look at him as the wound closed up but refused to fade._

_“Why don’t you heal it?”_

_“I thought you wanted me to hurt. Just like you do, remember?”_

_Claire said nothing, watching him march back to the bed and collapse onto the mattress, looking world-weary and more sad than angry. Still, silent, she followed after him._

_She touched her hand to his arm, circling her fingers around his wrist and he watched her for a long moment, reaching for her again to pull her toward him. He drew her into his lap, Claire shifting to angle against his hips more comfortably, linking her arms around his neck as she rested her chin against his neck._

_Peter returned the gesture, touching his forehead to her shoulder as his body trembled, hands softly caressing her lower back. “The family is going to disown me for this, sweetheart. Nathan will never look at me the same way again. But you’re his daughter, Claire. He’s the only family you have left. He won’t turn his back on you.”_

_“I don’t make you happy anymore. I don’t make you smile. I’m smothering you.”_

_“Peter.”_

_“I feel dead inside, Claire. Everything’s gone so cold. I don’t want to make you cry anymore. I don’t want to watch you lose yourself for me.”_

_She pressed a kiss to his neck, just holding him. She drew him all the more tighter against her, wanting nothing more than to melt into his embrace, become a part of him he could never let go of._

_She cried herself to sleep that night, warding off his hands as he tried to touch her, rejecting the notion of making love with him again._

_Come morning, Peter Petrelli walked out of her life all over again._

++

“Do you think he’s getting a thrill out of confusing us, or we’re just missing something obvious?”

Matt’s tired question was met with grumbles of agreement from the company, all assembled around several tables at a local diner, and now joined by Micah and Molly. The two teenagers had made their way to Isaac’s loft, intent on finding their guardians in hopes of funds for a lunch and movie afternoon.

One look at Claire being the center of the group’s attention and both had explained overhearing conversations of what was going on centering on the Petrellis. Molly had shot a concerned look toward Claire, asking softly if she was alright.

Micah had stood at her side and rolled his eyes, asking them dryly why adults were so slow- that Peter and Claire being in love with one another had been as obvious as neon red lights hovering above their heads.

In summary, neither teenager really batted an eyelash at the implications of the affair.

Devouring a rather large stack of flapjacks, Micah was in full studious mode, examining the play with all the attention he would give one of his electronics, “ _My only love sprung from my only hate._ Well, part of that’s obvious.”

Taking a sip of his coffee, his father looked at him blankly, “How so?”

“The first part. His _only love_. That’s obviously Claire.”

Claire flushed at the implication; shyly smiling as Niki winked at her, the smile sliding from her face quickly enough as she found herself reminded just what it meant to love Peter.

“Now we just have to figure out what the other part means. What does Peter hate?”

Claire’s mouth twitched as she poked at her omelet, listing off wryly, “Anchovies, snakes, cliché horror movies, people who don’t apologize after they bump into someone. Jarred spaghetti sauce, animal abuse, the current politics, anyone who interferes with his watching soccer games, getting anything on his books. I could go on.”

“I’m sure,” Matt teased her, lightly dipping into her thoughts to read the innocence of it all, in need of reminding himself of the feelings behind what he had almost helped destroy- reminded of the momentary fix they had all tried, now severed and hanging on by the barest thread as it was.

Isaac sighed to himself, setting aside his muffin and tea to lean forward, resting his chin in the palm of his hand, “Think, my friends. What is one of Peter’s biggest regrets? One he most disdains?”

As they sat thinking, Claire watched Isaac closely, his eyes locking with hers as realization finally clicked together with all the hints and clues. “Simone,” she stated simply.

Isaac nodded, “So who is Peter’s one hate?” he asked rhetorically, pulling a piece of paper from his pocket and sliding it across the table toward Claire. “It’s his phone number. He made me swear I wouldn’t give it to you unless you figured out his clue. Who better to leave his secret with then the person least likely to have it?”

That afternoon, Claire stood in the hospital hallway, biting her lip as she hesitated next to the payphone before her, Peter’s number clutched in the palm of her hand.

Peter.

As much as she loved him, there really were times when she resented his flight impulse, his damn martyr complex. Two weeks since he had disappeared from her life, leaving her with a few days’ notice and nothing but an intense kiss as goodbye.

Now…now he was needed more than ever.

Even with all the weeks she had suspected, it didn’t make the little lines staring back at her any less frightening or intimidating. Her body trembling as she tried to fight back the sobs fighting to emerge, her hands shook as she dialed the number, her lover’s familiar voice on the other end of the receiver bringing about her breakdown as she fell into tears.

“Peter…I need you…”

++

He met her in the corridor of the hospital ten minutes later, looking so oddly strange and familiar she had to keep reminding herself it had only been sixteen days.

He had cut his hair, shorter and clean-cut in a way that more resembled his brother than any impression Peter has ever given her of himself. He was perfectly clean-shaven, emphasizing the sharp angles of his profile.

The wound from that last night had not been allowed to heal, creating a long, furrowed scar trailing from his forehead down across the bridge of his nose, curving down his right cheek to nearly meet the corner of his mouth. The old bomber jacket he wore against the New York winter was deceptively casual, seemingly taking years off his appearance as he fell into step beside her.

They reached the waiting room of the children’s ward where Simon had been moved after the first emergency surgery to temporarily repair internal damage, sedated in the room across the hall as the family sat outside, watching the doctor and nurses scurrying about inside.

Nathan was talking quietly in his cell phone, off to one side; Angela stood nearby, dignified and distant as ever, staring pointedly at Simon’s room; Heidi was staring off in the same direction, eyes red-rimmed from crying and Monty sat beside her, morose and solemn as he gazed longingly at the prone figure of his unconscious elder brother.

Angela was the first to notice the approaching pair, disdain evident in her expression as she moved forward to intercept them, blocking their way, “What on earth do you two think you’re doing here?”

Peter was eerily calm as he stared down his mother, replying quietly, “I’m here to see my nephew.”

“You hardly have any right to come around this family again. That goes for you as well,” she eyed Claire with disgust equal with one examining dirt at the bottom of their shoe.

In a rare show of defying her mother-in-law, Heidi stepped between everyone, giving Angela a pointed look before warmly embracing Peter. “Peter, I’m so glad you’re here. How did you know?”

Peter’s eyes flickered over to Claire, briefly meeting with hers and she looked away quickly, struggling to make her way passed her relatives to put some distance between her and her uncle. Peter watching her retreating back, “Claire called me.”

Heidi only nodded in response, watching the two of them interact with a sad, somewhat befuddled expression as she took Peter by the arm and led him over to the chairs, “Did she fill you in on what’s going on?”

“He needs a liver transplant, am I right?”

“That’s what the doctor is proposing."

Peter nodded thoughtfully, sparing a glance at his nephew’s hospital room, “He’ll need a close match for that to work. A relative would be his best bet.”

Nathan, cursing to himself as he hung up his phone after useless conversation with the head of the hospital’s lab, he wearily looked up, starting as he took in the sight of his brother’s sudden appearance. “Peter?”

His younger brother nodded, and Nathan watching him silently, eyes retreating from him to Claire and back again, face blanketing with a strange mixture of satisfaction and sadness. “What the hell happened to your face?”

Peter’s look said it all: the topic wasn’t open for discussion. Nathan’s eyebrows rose incredulously and then he shrugged, clearing his throat. He turned toward his wife, going back to the original intention of his call, “The lab doesn’t have the results finished yet. We still don’t know who will be the best match for Simon.”

His wife nodded solemnly and Peter’s head jerked up, attention focusing once more on his brother, “Where can I go to get tested?”

“You?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Nathan’s countenance flashed with a brief hint of pride, even familiar affection, and he opened his mouth to reply, only to find himself interrupted by his mother as she held up a hand for silence. “That’s not even worth the risk, Peter. Your genetics are volatile. The power of yours is changing so often we can’t even be sure you’d be a possible match anymore, let alone to risk something so dangerous to a mere boy like your nephew.”

Unable to mask his discontent at the logic of his mother’s conclusion but irked at the coldness of her dismissal, Peter reluctantly nodded, turning on his heel to pace nearby, Claire watching the familiar lines of tension appearing in his profile as he tried to contain his anger.

Looking away from him, Claire found herself the subject of Heidi’s attention, her stepmother’s expression tender as she whispered, “You’re hurting."

“There’s not many other options.”

Heidi sighed, reaching out to brush a lock of Claire’s hair away from her face, tucking the stray curl behind her ear, “This situation doesn’t have many options…but they shouldn’t cause you pain, darling.”

Claire smiled sadly, “There’s always a price to pay for the sin.”

Angela, meanwhile, was in full business mode as she instructed her eldest son, still ignoring the youngest, “Get René on the phone, Nathan. Tell him I need him to contact David Hayden.”

Nathan gave her a bewildered expression but obeyed, pulling out his phone as Claire watching them blankly. Meeting her uncomprehending look, Peter mouthed to her, “The Haitian,” and Claire nodded, frowning as she stood up and approached him.

“We need to talk.”

Looking over her head at the rest of the family, Peter’s forehead furrowed with thought, emphasizing the scar, and he gave her a curt nod as they rounded the corner, close by but just out of sight.

“Why did you leave me?”

He stood leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest as he avoided her eyes. His voice was flat as he responded, gaze distant as he watched the family assembled nearby. “The family…”

“Don’t feed me that. We both know that’s not the truth.”

“…I hate myself…I won’t poison you will that…”

“You’d rather have me hate you instead.”

He opened his mouth to reply and then thought better of it, instead turning his head around to face her, eyes unreadable.

“We have the worst timing in the world, do you realize that?” she asked him softly, resting her head against the wall as her eyes closed wearily, not wanting to look anymore into his.

Peter made a soft sound of affirmation, nodding to himself as he waiting for her to continue, reading the strange undercurrent to her abrupt observation.

“There’s something you need to know.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m pregnant, Peter.”

And just like that, Peter Petrelli’s entire world changed all over again.


	28. Generations I

“I know.”  
  
The quiet response was so unexpected it left her gaping at him, incredulously flummoxed as he met her eyes calmly, “E-excuse me, what?”  
  
“I know. I can feel it. I was waiting for you to bring it up.”  
  
“How…”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
She closed her eyes, unable to fully process and he cautiously approached, slipping an arm around her. He braced her back against him, supporting her weight as she sagged into him, accepting the solid reassurance of him. She slowly exhaled, turning her face to press her cheek to his chest, “I talked to Mohinder. I asked for his opinion on a professional level, nothing else.”  
  
“What’d he say?”  
  
“We’re in trouble, Peter.”  
  
She turned in the circle of his arms, pressing her hands against his stomach as she looked up at him, “I don’t understand. We were always careful. We knew what would happen otherwise.”  
  
He leaned her forehead against hers, sighing softly. “I don’t know. I thought we’d be safe too.”  
  
“What are we going to do, Peter? I can’t…not even an option…I could never…”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“But how can we do this to a baby? You and me, a baby…we aren’t supposed to let this happen…”  
  
“I know,” he whispered again, pressing his lips to her temple, holding all the more tightly to him, “What did Mohinder say exactly?”  
  
“Other than the obvious about not being genetically compatible? That there’s no easy way to this. Nothing’s certain, but the two of us being so closely related ups the chance of things going wrong a lot higher. Everything’s at risk.”  
  
He nodded against her head, rocking her in his arms as she cried quietly, “I never wanted to do this to a baby, Peter. A child we could have hurt without ever meaning to.”  
  
“I know,” a kiss to her cheek, her neck, nuzzling against her jaw comfortingly, “I know, sweetheart. We’ll do everything we can. We just have to wait and see.”  
  
Suddenly, his head jerked up, eyes alert as he stared off back around the corner, his body tense and ramrod, his arms falling from around her.   
  
“Peter, what is it?”  
  
Jaw clenching and lips pursing as he scowled, he gripped her hand, urging her along with him as he started walking, eyes intent on his mother and brother as they finally came to a stop directly in front of them. Claire dropped his hand in favor of grabbing his arm, uncertain of where his intention lay. “Mother,” he stated tersely.   
  
Angela Petrelli turned toward him, blatantly annoyed, “What? You’re interrupting something very important, Peter.”  
  
Peter’s eyes flashed dangerously and Claire knew she wasn’t the only one who saw it; Angela looked momentarily discomforted, her expression falling back into a mask of disdain a moment later.   
  
His voice was low and throaty, a near-growl, “You’re afraid of me. I can feel it. Tell me why. Why do you fear me so badly?”  
  
Her lips pursed, “So it’s finally happening. You’re just like your father after all. I knew this day would come.”  
  
She reached over to her baffled oldest, clicking off his cell phone and effectively drawing his attention to her. “René will be arriving with an associate with mine on the earliest flight possible out of London. Meanwhile, this hospital’s lab now has my grandson as its number one priority. Nathan, Peter; it’s time we talked.”  
  
She paused, glancing at them both with indiscernible eyes, “Sometimes secrets are necessary. Other times, it’s best not to keep them buried anymore. Meet me in the chapel in ten minutes; I need a bit of time to remember forty years.”  
  
++  
  
_Houston, Texas- 1962_  
  
“It’s a boy.”  
  
The excited voice of Lyle Bennet echoed through the Texan waiting room, greeted with excited chatter and exclamations from the family assembled. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins stepped forward to congratulate the expectant father, but one relative in particular held back, casting uneasy looks at the man beside her.   
  
Hayden Bennet turned away from the celebratory family, dark hair falling forward to shield her face. Gentle fingers brushed the curtain of hair, slowly tracing the curve of her cheek as vividly blue eyes peered down at her worriedly, “Harper, love?”  
  
He hadn’t changed at all to the naked eye, still so much the man she had fallen in love with; tall and proud, boyishly handsome with his tousled brown hair and baby-blue eyes; still in his army fatigues in his haste to get to the hospital with her that morning  
  
But something was different about her Danny: something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. And she was not certain she liked the change.   
  
Harper took the time to study the man before her, her husband of less than a year. Daniel Linderman had been the cute, charming boy next door, the son of the most prominent man in Odessa, the town they’d grown up in together.   
  
He was a few years older than her twenty, her childhood sweetheart, drafted in the Vietnam conflict and shipped away just a month after her high school graduation. They’d married on his first leave a year later and since then she’d barely saw hide or hair of the man she’d promised the rest of her life to.   
  
It was a reassurance and a strangeness at the same time to have him at her side after all these months, present for the birth of her first nephew of all the odd times for him to have arrived home.   
  
“Danny,” she murmured weakly, staring hard at her family, disconcerted at the leaden feeling in her stomach, “I don’t know if I can do this.”  
  
Daniel pressed a kiss to her temple, soothing squeezing her hand, “Please, Harper? For me?”  
  
“I don’t know…”  
  
“Please?”  
  
Lyle. Sweet, good-natured Lyle. Her big brother, an ecstatic new father, naively young but so proud of the little wonder nestled in his arms as he showed off his son.   
  
Trembling as her husband’s arms wrapped around her, Hayden closed her eyes, reaching out mentally to break through the vulnerable defenses of her brother’s mind. She slipped in, so trusting a personality like Lyle’s making it nauseatingly easy, and she whispered the suggestion into his thoughts.   
  
Taking in a shuddering breath, Hayden withdrew, shaking all the more violently as she left the manipulation and came back to herself, watching guiltily as Lyle’s face lit up and he announced the baby’s name.  
  
“Noah. His name’s Noah,” he grinned over at the couple in the corner, giving his brother-in-law a smart salute, “Here’s to honoring a man brave enough to defend our country, taking the time to be here with us.”  
  
As excited murmurs of agreement passed through the parents and siblings, Hayden leaned back weakly into her husband’s embrace, Daniel’s breath brushing her ear as he whispered softly, “Noah. The one who will guide them all.”  
  
Hayden Bennet- Hayden Linderman- had never felt so heart-sick.   
  
++  
  
_Upper Manhattan- 1967_  
  
Arthur Petrelli was desperately bored.   
  
He’d been born a blue-blooded son of high society; had fitted into the role for his entire life, but no amount of parties and social functions ever shook him out of the sheer monotony of it all. Despite appearances, he wasn’t all that extroverted, certainly no people person. It was only family obligation that led him out the comfortable confines of his law office and bachelor penthouse.   
  
He sighed as he fiddled with the sleeve of his dress shirt, peeking out from beneath his suit jacket. He ran a hand through short, midnight dark hair, not caring if he mussed the styled look.   
  
The sound of a familiar voice from behind him, tinged with amusement, startled him into nearly jumping out of his skin, “Missing the crew-cut, Dallas?”  
  
Arthur looked up into the face of one Daniel Linderman, looking just the right side of arrogant in his confident air and well-fitting dress clothes. “Daniel. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”  
  
Daniel smiled at him blithely, rocking back on his heels as he stuffed his hands in his pockets, letting his gaze scan over the room. To any casual observer, the gesture would have seemed lazy, idle, but Arthur knew better: Linderman was alert as a hawk, searching out the room for his next target.   
  
There was the reason Daniel Linderman was a leader: he knew what was needed, when it was needed, and what was needed to get it.   
  
“What better way to mingle with the more influential classes of society, my friend? Especially to create…needed connections.”  
  
Arthur merely raised an eyebrow as Daniel flagged down a server, presenting Arthur and himself with a glass of champagne. Arthur sipped slowly from the drink, regarding his partner, “You won’t be able to attend these things for much longer; not effectively. That businessman façade is going to start splintering soon, the more your reputation filters into…shadier activities.”  
  
The blue eyes that turned on him were fierce, unreadable as they glinted with a strange flicker, “I do what I have to. Monetary means are what we need most right now,” he clapped a companionable hand to his shoulder, turning back to the assembled crowds, “As for society…don’t worry, Dallas. That’s why I have you.”  
  
“And speaking of your position, why aren’t you mingling more? It’s about high time you started looking for someone, Arthur.”  
  
Arthur sputtered into his drink, shooting his friend an incredulous look, “Why on earth would I want to tie myself down? Just because you’re married doesn’t mean the rest of us are looking to be.”  
  
Daniel only looked amused, “You’re thirty. Don’t you think it’s time you thought about settling down? I know your family has.”  
  
Arthur winced at the reminder of familial duty his father constantly tried to drill into him, “Don’t remind me.”  
  
Daniel smiled, holding up the hand displaying his wedding band, “It’s your choice, friend. On another note, I spoke to Charles again.”  
  
“Oh? What did he have to say?”  
  
“He’s willing to stand with us. He’s already spilling funds into a new group- the Deveaux society,” Daniel gave him a toothy grin, taking another sip of his champagne, “We’ll save the world, Dallas. But to get there- we need to build an empire.”  
  
“Now,” throwing an arm around the other man’s shoulders, he directed Arthur’s attention back toward the crowds, “You see that man in uniform there? That would be General Richard Shaw.”  
  
“I’m listening.”  
  
“A very influential man in Washington. Would be a wonderful connection to have, don’t you agree?”  
  
“Why do I get the feeling I’m about to be played?” Arthur commented dryly, watching Daniel’s’s hand point to a dignified-looking girl standing next to the general, looking rightfully bored. She was a young thing, dressed demurely in dark blue emphasizing falls of raven-black hair and the handsome features of her face.   
  
No beauty, but more than lastingly pretty.   
  
“That, sir, would be Angela, the dear General’s daughter. She made her debut into society earlier this year.”  
  
“She’s a child.”  
  
“Eighteen,” Daniel gave him a prodding nudge to the shoulder, “Ask her to dance. Charles gives his blessing.”  
  
The other man left to mingle and Arthur swore under his breath, draining his glass before drawing himself up, putting on his best smile as he crossed the room.   
  
Charles’s dreams were never wrong.   
  
++  
  
_Brooklyn- 1977_  
  
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”  
  
The startled exclamation was the first thing Nico Rossi heard as he shook his head after tumble to the ground, looking up to take in the feminine figure bending over him, apologizing profusely. He cast a confused glance at the bag he’d dropped in the fall, the contents spilled out over the concrete walkway.   
  
“Are you dizzy, sir? You took such a hard knock. I’m so sorry…I should have been watching where I was going.”  
  
He nodded numbly, wincing and instantly regretting the action as his vision blurred again, his head aching at the back of his skull. A soft hand pressed to his brow, brushing back his hair to check for any damage from the fall. The touch was electric, startling the young man into jumping slightly, his breath catching painfully with contact from a woman he had not even seen yet.   
  
“I’m sorry,” the voice was soft, apologetic “Did that hurt?”  
  
A warm flood of concern washed over him, hints of guilt and worry he realized disconcertingly were feeling that did not originate from him. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the active buzz of power in his veins, absorbing.   
  
He could see her then, clear as day in his mind’s eye. Sweet Lord, she was beautiful. Slender and small-statured, characterized by long legs and softly formed curves; an exquisitely featured face, accented by long falls of honey-brown hair, wide eyes a startling shade of blue.   
  
Those eyes were amazing, brimming with an inner fire and potential, giving him the reason behind how something so small could have knocked him so clear off his feet.   
  
A dimple in her cheek as she smiled, and God save him, it was an amazing smile; skin alabaster pale and flawlessly smooth as porcelain, slender hands with the delicacy of an artist’s touch- and something thrummed inside him as he took in the ability those hands were capable of, the power a quick, jolting heat in his blood.   
  
When he directed his gaze back toward her, his eyes were direct, clear and unhindered, and he smiled at the woman before him, “I’m alright, Vivien. Just had the wind knocked out of me.”  
  
Smiling softly at the quiet, pleasant tenor finally speaking to her, laced with a softly-spoken accent she could not quite place, it took her a moment to recall what had been strange about his statement, “Wait a second, how do you know my name?”  
  
Nico offered her a sheepish grin, “You might want to ask Signor Linderman about that instead. He could explain it better to you.”  
  
He proceeded to dust himself off, searching around for the items fallen to the ground from his bag; Vivien, still struggling to process what the man had said, absentmindedly began to help him.   
  
Between pencils and charcoal and chalk, drawing paper and a sharpening blade, an inkling of understanding took root in Vivien’s mind, “You’re an artist?”  
  
He nodded, shyly glancing up to meet her eyes, “Humbly.”  
  
There was that accent again, and this time a bit more recognizable, “You’re Linderman’s empath, the one from Venice.”  
  
“That’s me,” he finished packing up his bag, holding out his hand to aid her to her feet, “Nico Rossi.” His fingers curled around hers, strong and pleasantly warm, a hint of calloused flesh against his palm a not unpleasant contrast.   
  
“Vivien Mendez.”  
  
He smiled, enigmatically, “I know.” He bent his head, debonairly kissing the back of her hand, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Signora.”


	29. Generations II

_Upper Manhattan- 1977_

"For the last time, Samson, I will not stand for this! You will not defy my authority!"

It was one of the few times she had ever heard Daniel so angry as he roared out his final decision to the petty demands being given to him by the two men before him. His eyes were narrowed and angry as he slammed his hands down on his desk, daring either to speak out again in defiance.

Angela Petrelli watched from her corner as both men stayed silent. The taller of the two, an angry, dark-tempered sort of man, scowled up at their leader from beneath knitted, heavy brows, tight-lipped with anger.

Samson Gray. Such a detestable man.

The other was sickly looking despite being portly, flushed in the face from temper but too scared to ever speak up again. She could see the hazy look in his eyes, the slight stagger to his stride and she could nearly smell the stale liquor clinging to the drunkard man.

Hal Sanders had never been much more than a coward.

The door opened, and barely audible sound soft enough not to disrupt but still enough to draw Angela's attention as she observed the telekinetic schoolteacher Daniel seemed to favor so greatly step warily into the room, followed behind by a tall young Italian, awkwardly unsure of himself as he glanced around shyly.

The empathic mimic Daniel had been raving about for weeks. At least some good had come out this wretched day.

Daniel drew himself up proudly, falling back casually into his chair, leaning forward as he steepled his fingers and regarded the men coolly. "Now get out of my office."

Vivien snorted as she watched the men walk away, wrinkling her nose as the shorter of the two shot her leering grins. "Pigs. The only reason Linderman keeps them around is their powers. Sanders might be a nasty drunk, but Gray's a real bastard."

Nico shot her a bemused look, blinking at the sudden venom in her voice. She smiled at him, shrugging an apologetic shoulder.  "Sorry. I have a real distaste for men like that."

"That's a strange comment, my dear, considering what kind of trash you married yourself to."

 

Vivien stiffened at Angela's statement, "Mrs. Petrelli. Why am I not surprised to see you here?"

"The same to you, child. Shouldn't you be in a classroom? I'm sure someone needs to bring in a paycheck, since the man of the house seems to be unavailable for such labors."

Vivien said nothing, tight-lipped and dangerously quiet with indignation. Nico watched the parry between the two women, mortified and highly disappointed on a shallow level at the reminder about his companion's marital status, a deeper sympathy welling up at the not-so-subtle hints toward an unhappy home life.

"That's enough," Linderman interrupted, leaning back in his chair as he regarded Nico thoughtfully, "Welcome to New York, Signor Rossi. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard great things about you."

"The honor is all mine, Signor Linderman."

"Please, call me Daniel. We're all friends here," he smiled gently, turning his head to face Vivien, "Thank you for bringing him to me, but if you don't mind, Mrs. Mendez, we have some business to attend to."

++

"Daniel, something needs to be done about Samson Gray. Since Gabriel was born, he's become much too sure of himself."

"I know, my dear. I'll take care of it."

"Whose file is it?"

"Matthew. So far, he hasn't exhibited any signs of usual behavior- the moment that happens, however, I'll need to take him from his placement with the adoptive family."

"You think the Parkmans would let him go so easily?"

"They wouldn't have a choice."

Angela nodded agreeably, perching on the corner of his desk as he pored over the file, reading quietly. Daniel reached up and placed a hand on her knee, Angela reciprocating by resting her palm over his.

"Mother! Uncle Danny!"

The doors to the office swung open to admit an energetic seven-year-old Nathan, dark hair tousling at the speed he was bounding across the room as he leapt into Daniel's lap.

Daniel chuckled, running a hand through the boy's hair as Nathan threw his arms around his neck in a quick hug, "Careful there, son. I'm not as young as I used to be."

 

"Nuh-uh. That's what Daddy says, Uncle Danny, and you're not as old as Daddy. He had all that gray stuff in his hair."

Daniel shared a smile with the boy's mother as he set her son down to the floor, pressing a finger to his chin in faux contemplation, "I get the feeling I'm forgetting something. Do you remember if I've forgotten something important, Angie?"

Amused, Angela shook her head, "Not that I can remember, Daniel."

Squirming with discomfort, Nathan pouted at both of them, "No fair. Uncle Danny said he'd take me to the air museum today."

Daniel cocked an eyebrow, his eyes glinting as he threw a wink in Angela's direction, "Did I? Well then," he leapt to his feet, lifting up a squealing Nathan to rest over his shoulder, the laughing boy protesting the whole way as Daniel carried him toward the door.

"Bring him back in one piece, Daniel."

"Of course, my dear."

++

"You waited for me?"

Vivien Mendez's eyes shot up to the tall figure standing before her, meeting the confused expression clouding Nico's swarthy features. He was a handsome boy, olive-skinned and beautifully featured, long-limbed and leanly muscled. His brown eyes were gentle and soft as the man they belonged to, his face framed by tousled dark hair the hue of jet-black night, inky and thick as it curled around his ears and fell into his eyes.

"Yeah," she licked her lips, feeling suddenly shy, "I was wondering if you might like to join me for dinner."

His eyes instantly warmed, the glow in them faltering as they locked on her wedding band. Vivien suddenly had an irrational urge to hide it as if the jewelry was some shameful thing to have in this man's presence. He hesitated, "I would be happy to. But would your husband object?"

Vivien shook her head, accepting the hand Nico offered her to rise to her feet, "No. He won't be home. He never is anymore."

"Vivien?"

She sighed, realizing suddenly he still had her hand and she looked down at the joined limbs, meeting his eyes with some unspoken question. Coming to some kind of agreement, his fingers curled around hers, Vivien tucking her hand into his, and they started their journey out of the building.

"Signor Mendez? He is a good husband?"  
  
"I can't answer that without making a fool of myself. I chose him."

"You could never be a fool, mia bella. Trust me."

"Carlos…he's not the man I hoped for when I married him."

"A drinker, no? Unemployed."

"Yes," she shot him an unreadable look, "You can tell all that? From your ability? You connect with me in some way?"

"It's hard to explain. It's like I absorb parts of a person. I can mimic and empathize everything that a person is experiencing in that moment of first contact. I know them at the most basic level of understanding. I never forget what makes them themselves."

"An empath, and a mimic. Wow…no wonder Linderman is so interested in you."

He watched her fingers fiddling with her wedding band again and he sighed, "Why do you stay with him, Vivien?"

Her face was so sad, it made his heart ache, "It's not something I can easily explain, Nico," she hesitated, avoiding her friend's eyes as she finally answered, "Sometimes it's good. The rest of the time, there's no one else."

He slipped an arm around her shoulder, favoring her with a soft smile, "There is always a better choice, Signora. You just have to wait for it to find you."

++

_Queens, 1977_

"Nicky!"

Nico looked up from his drawing pad at the call of the familiar nickname, flashing a crooked grin to the girl trotting toward him, "Viv, buon pormeriggo."

She smiled as she sat down on the bench beside him, contently glancing around at the sun-filled park; overhanging trees, flocks of pigeons, couples strolling along the walkways and children playing in the grass. Nearly picturesque; she could see why Nico would choose to draw here.

"Afternoon," she greeted him cheerfully, smiling cheekily as she held up a nondescript paper bag. His eyes widened with interest.

"What is it today?" he asked her eagerly, reminding her of the boyish enthusiasm he tended to exhibit toward every aspect of American culture he tended to encounter, especially the food.

"Cheeseburgers and fries. You want to try?"

"Absolutely."

His response was enthusiastic, and she giggled as she handed him a napkin, indicating the charcoal smudges still clinging to his fingers as he sheepishly nodded, wiping off his hands. Within a few moments, he was unwrapping the food, sinking his teeth into the burger, chewing with small sounds of satisfaction.

"You like?"

"Very much so," he proceeded to wolf down the burger, having Vivien glad she had four others in the bag. Munching on her own, she turned her attention to the charcoal drawing Nico had been working on, set aside for now in favor of the food. Three children- two boys and a toddling little girl- playing beneath the hovering oak trees nearby, a kite tucked beneath one of the boy's arms, a small dog dancing around their feet.

She smiled. Nico was so much more talented than he gave himself credit for.

Three weeks since Nico had come to the States, and consequently, New York, at Daniel Linderman's request, and it still caught her by surprise from time to time how close they had become in so little time.

From the moment they met, there had been a spark of something, a strange connection that had her eager to learn more about the soft-spoken man she'd collided with on that fateful Sunday morning.

Beyond Linderman's orders, there was so much more to the empath that drew Vivien in nearly against her will.

Nico was young, just barely twenty, born in Venice, Italy. He spoke of his mother as a devout Catholic wife, his father a strict, no-nonsense intellectual unhappy with Nico's aspirations to be a painter. His older brother had married young, moved on to become a lawyer, solemn as their father, scornful of the eccentric qualities of Nico's personality and his artistic inclinations.

His empathic ability only added to their distain; something that disappointed her about the people who had raised the man beside her, for Nico was a natural sensitive, quietly observant, shy and soft-spoken, but extremely bright.

He was a warm personality and he wore his heart on his sleeve, simultaneously intuitive to the hearts of everyone else around him. It was for the rarity of his ability that the Company had brought him to the city, but it was warmth of that heart that drew Vivien to him.

"I think I have a new favorite," he announced as he finished the second burger, breaking through her reflections.

"Yeah? I thought it was the hot dogs we got last week at Coney Island."

"Yes, but it has changed with this wonderful new delight."  
  
Hearing him speak so matter-of-factly, she smiled, shaking her head with fond exasperation, "I swear you're one of a kind. You're like a boy in a man's body."

Swallowing his latest mouthful, Nico grinned crookedly, "Who says I have ever grown up? Mia madre used to say I was carefree from the womb."

He turned his head to face her, frowning as he watched the smile fade from her face, "Vivien? What is wrong?”

"Nicky, can you keep a secret?"

He placed a hand on hers, his eyes gentle as he nodded, "You know I can."

"Carlos walked out on me last night."

Expressionless, Nico slipped an arm around her, Vivien leaned against his shoulder, closing wearied eyes, "That is not all of it," Nico softly concluded.

"No. Nicky…I'm pregnant."

++

_Queens- 1978_

It was rare for the two of them to find time for these quiet moments of peace- not with a five-day-old Isaac finally home from the hospital.

Or at least they would be peaceful, if not for the streams of curses and other crude commentary coming from the other side of the room. Nico sat in the kitchen of the Mendez home, lazily lounging in a chair at the dining table, watching Vivien as she moved through the kitchen.

He found himself torn between amusement and concern, especially as he listened to her cursing under her breath, shaking his head as he heard an exaggerated sound of the knife scrapping against the cutting board.

"What kind of influence is that on little Isaac?"

"Lucky Isaac is sleeping, isn't it?"

"Vivien, are you having trouble?"

She regarded him over her shoulder, fixing him with a glare that would have caused lesser men to squirm. Fortunately in Nico's case, he had spent over nine months growing used to the different aspects of her personality, from all her wants and likes to her stormy temperaments.

"So nice of you to point out the obvious, Nicky!"

Nico leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms across his chest, and grinned unabashedly. "It's why I'm here, cara."

"So nice to know your dry wit is still intact."

"Isn't it just?"

She narrowed her eyes, and turned her face away from him. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you."

"And dark looks do not suit you either. I much prefer to see you smiling."

"I might smile more if the stupid vegetables would just cooperate."

Nico smiled and stood, making his way into the kitchen to stand behind her, slipping his arms around her waist, resting his chin against her shoulder. "Would you like some help?"

She leaned back against him, sighing softly. "I never knew this would be so hard…"

"Hmm." He dropped a kiss to her cheek, dangerously straddling the lines between them but not quite crossing. It was frustrating to both parties. Nico cleared his throat, seeking distraction, "It's not like you to admit defeat."

"Hmm," She leaned back into him, resting her hands over his arms, relishing the moment of stolen contact. "Why can't I just make something simple? Isn't mac n' cheese your new favorite?"

"Yes, but the doctor told you to eat better. Macaroni doesn't fit in that category."

"Says who?"

"Everyone," he commented wryly, "You gave birth less than a week ago. It took a lot out of you. Remember me? The man whose hand you almost broke?"

She smiled softly, "Mother hen."

"Only because I like you, bella." He stole another kiss to her cheek. "Will you let me help you then?"

"Hmm-mm. Please."

He stepped closer until he was flush against her back, placing his hands over hers. Though the contact should have been casual, there was something stirring, utterly sensual about the way his skin slid over hers, their fingers entwining.

As if the heat of his body so achingly tangible at her back was not distracting enough, his cheek pressed against her hair, each exhaled breath a teasing sensation against sensitive skin. His hand guided hers to slowly chopping the vegetables in neat, clear cuts, stirring the broth simmering on the burner, checking the browning beef. A stew that would satisfy any doctor in its nutritional value, but still heavy enough to satisfy a hearty appetite like Nico's.

"See?" he said softly, "Not so bad. We make a good team, do we not?"

She nodded, letting her head rest back against his shoulder, raising their joined hands to her lips. "Yeah. We do. Nicky?"

"Hmm?"

"I like you too. Even if you are a mother hen."


	30. Generations III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains brief instances of derogatory language, both misogynist and racial slurs. These do not reflect the views of the author, they are only meant to reflect the vileness of the characters saying the words.

_Queens, 1978_  
  
“How did the meeting at the gallery go?”  
  
Holding a squirming Isaac up to the icy window, so the boy could trace shapes and patterns in the foggy surface, Nico turned his head over his shoulder to smile at the child’s mother. “It went alright. I still do not know if they want to feature my paintings. They said they would call.”  
  
She sidled up behind him, pressing a hand to Nico’s shoulder and draping her opposite arm around her young son, “I’m sure you’ll hear from them soon. They’d be foolish not to show your work.”  
  
“Thank you,” he leaned closer, pressed a kiss to her brow as he shifted Isaac into her arms, disengaging from them to make his way into the kitchen, answering the whistle of the kettle they had left boiling.  
  
“Tea?”  
  
“Please,” Vivien responded to him, smiling at the baby grin Isaac cast her as she lifted him up, setting him down on a blanket she outstretched on the living room floor, “Its freezing.”  
  
“Sì,” was his thickly accented response, as he stepped back into the room carrying two steaming mugs of tea, sitting himself in an armchair, the cups against the end table at his side, “Have you talked to the landlord about the heat?”  
  
Vivien sighed, tickling Isaac’s sides and earning giggles from the child in return, having his mother able to manage a smile of her own, “That jerk. He doesn’t want to listen.”  
  
Nico rubbed a hand over his face, sipping from his tea, “If you want, I’ll talk to him. It’s almost December, for God’s sake.”  
  
“If you want to try.”  
  
As if in response to their conversation, baby Isaac pulled at the slipper-socks covering his feet. Righting the socks, Vivien grasped her son’s hands, playfully shaking one of his little fists, “Ah, ah. I’m not having you get sick, little man.” She touched the hat covering his curly-haired head to emphasize her point.  
  
Watching Isaac reach for nearby toys, Vivien caught Nico’s eye, smiling mischievously. Raising a hand and concentrating, Isaac’s toys- a collection of stuffed animals, blocks, plastic keys and teething rings- began to levitate. With a motion of her hand, they began to circle above the baby’s head. Isaac gurgled with delight, his hands outstretched and soft brown eyes mesmerized.  
  
Grinning at both their antics, grasping for the blanket across the back of the chair he sat in, Nico set his mug aside, “Vivien.”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Come here, bella.”  
  
She smiled at him, tucking a baby-blanket around Isaac before climbing to her feet, settling herself in her lap as he draped the throw around them both in turn. He gave her that sweet, crooked smile she’d grown so fond of and asked, “Warmer?”  
  
“Very much so.”  
  
Nico handed off her mug, taking a deep swallow of his own as he curiously picked up the book sitting on the table beside them. “What are you reading?”  
  
“Neruda,” she replied, giving him a small smile as she sipped from her tea, watching as he slowly flipped through the book.  
  
“Pablo Neruda?”  
  
“You’ve heard of him?”  
  
“I have. Chilean, is he not?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
He kissed the top of her head, studying the pages before him, “You always have something new.”  
  
She smiled, leaning her head back to nuzzle against his neck, “That’s what you get when you’re friends with an English teacher.”  
  
“I suppose so,” he cocked his head slightly, looking down at her, “Speaking of which…”  
  
She sighed, “They said there’s a place for me after maternity leave. But it’s sooner rather than later, so I have no idea what on earth I’ll do with Isaac in the meantime.”  
  
“I can take him. He can stay with me at the studio, if you like.”  
  
“Really? You’d do that?”  
  
“Of course. Isaac and I get along just fine,” he smiled, “He can be my assistant.”  
  
“What will he do?” she teased him lightly, “Mix your paints?”  
  
Nico only grinned in response, turning his attention back to the poetry book, and he began to read,  
  
“’Drunk with pines and long kisses, like summer I steer the fast sail of the roses, bent towards the death of the thin day, stuck into my solid marine madness.  
  
Pale and lashed to my ravenous water, I cruise in the sour smell of the naked climate, still dressed in gray and bitter sounds, and a sad crest of the abandoned spray.  
  
Hardened by passions, I go mounted on my one wave, lunar, solar, burning and cold, all at once, becalmed in the throat of the fortunate isles that are white and sweet as cool hips.  
  
In the moist night my garment of kisses trembles- charged to insanity with electric currents, heroically divided into dreams- and intoxicating roses practicing on me.  
  
Upstream, in the midst of the outer waves, your parallel body yields to my arms, like a fish infinitely fastened to my soul, quick and slow, in the energy under the sky.’”  
  
Before the words had fully left his mouth, he suddenly felt something warm press to his lips and his mind barely had time to register he was being kissed before it blanked out. The contact was soft, so incredibly soft, but the moment he tried to recover his shock enough to reciprocate, she was gone, peppering stray kisses against his cheek, jaw and chin, along his neck.  
  
He blinked, stupefied, watching as she raised her hand, letting the toys circling in the air like a mobile gently lower to the floor, “He’s asleep,” she told him, nestling her head back against his shoulder.  
  
He encircled his arm around her, “Good.”  
  
“Mmm. It is good. I couldn’t concentrate much longer anyway.”  
  
Nico began to smile at her and then he winced, rubbing his head as his face twisted into a pained expression, “Nicky? What’s wrong?”  
  
“Just a headache.”  
  
She pursed her lips, slowly massaging his temples, “Another one? Babe, that’s the third one this week. Are you that stressed out?”  
  
“Honestly, not at all. I am quite baffled.”  
  
“Why don’t I get you some aspirin?”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
She brushed a hand through his hair, smoothing the long locks back against his forehead, “You know, I love a man who appreciates words.”  
  
“Bella, I appreciate more than your words.”  
  
“I know,” she leaned upward, kissing him once more, just as chaste and brief as before, “I know.”  
  
She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and then climbed off his lap in search of the aspirin.  
  
++  
  
_Manhattan, February 1979  
_  
“Viv!”  
  
“Morgan,” Vivien looked up from digging around in Isaac’s diaper bag in search of his teething ring, smiling warmly as her friend approached, glancing speculatively at Viv’s companions before enveloping the other woman in a hug.  
  
“Viv, it’s been too long!!”  
  
“I’ll have to second that. I thought you were in Chicago? What brings you back to the city?”  
  
Morgan sighed, smiling wanly, “Company business. You know how it is.”  
  
“Do I ever?” she glanced to her side, suddenly remembering, “Morgan, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Nico Rossi. Nicky, this is Morgan Ellis. She and I go way back.”  
  
Adjusting the squirming Isaac to rest in the crook of his arm, Nico held out a hand, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Signora. Vivien’s told me a lot about you.”  
  
“Really?” Morgan cocked an eyebrow as she gave the young man a speculative once-over, “It’s nice to meet you as well, Nico. I’m glad you know Vivien’s still making friends in my absence. Especially such cute ones.”  
  
Nico flushed at the implication, clearing his throat as he pointedly averted his gaze to his watch, “I am very sorry to cut this short, but I’m running late for my meeting with Signor Linderman,” he handed off Isaac to Vivien, dropping a kiss to the boy’s head and another to his mother’s cheek, “I will meet you at the studio later?”  
  
“Yeah, we’ll go get something to eat,” she returned Nico’s kiss, throwing him a wink, “Give him hell, Nicky.”  
  
Nico flashed her a crooked grin, giving a parting nod to Morgan before disappearing down the hallway. Isaac made a sound of protest at his leaving, wiggling in his mother’s embrace and reaching after Nico’s retreating figure.  
  
“Shh, sweetie, you’ll see him later. It won’t be long.”  
  
Eying the interactions thoughtfully, Morgan motioned her friend to a bench nearby, the two of them taking a seat side-by-side. “So,” Morgan began, “This must be Isaac.”  
  
“Yep, this is him,” she placed him gently in Morgan’s outstretched arms, who held him delicately and cooed over the baby.  
  
“How old?”  
  
“Nine months as of last week,” Vivien replied, running a hand through the child’s curls, “I don’t know where all the time’s gone. He just keeps getting bigger.”  
  
“I felt the same way with Sarah. Congratulations, Viv. He’s a cutie,” she smiled, leaning back against the nearby wall as Vivien took back Isaac and settled him in her lap, “Speaking of cute…tell me about your Italian friend.”  
  
“There’s not much to tell. He’s Venice-born, an artist, and a powerful empath. It’s that last part that interests Linderman,” she paused, glancing down fondly at her son, chewing contently on his teething ring, “He’s wonderful with Isaac.”  
  
“That’s all?”  
  
Vivien shrugged, “He’s a good friend.”  
  
Morgan grinned, giving the other woman a sly look, “You like him.”  
  
“Of course I do. We’re friends.”  
  
“No. You like him.”  
  
“Morgan!!”  
  
“What?” Morgan held up her hands innocently, “I’m just stating fact.”  
  
“I’m married.”  
  
“You wouldn’t be if that son of a bitch would show his face long enough to give you a divorce!”  
  
“I have a baby.”  
  
“So? You said he was good with Isaac, right?”  
  
“…well, yeah, but…”  
  
Morgan crossed her arms, “But what? If you like him, you should go for it. You could use someone good in your life.”  
  
“He’s already in my life. Just not like that. Besides, he’s too young for me, Morgan. He’s just a boy.”  
  
“How old is he?”  
  
Vivien mumbled her reply, glancing down fixatedly at the crown of Isaac’s head.  
  
“Twenty-one? Vivien, that’s five years difference! So what? That’s nothing.”  
  
“It’s everything when it applies to the baggage I’d come with, Morgan.”  
  
“You’re being ridiculous.”  
  
“Thank you so much for the support,” Vivien replied dryly, switching gears to draw the other’s attention away from Nico, “So how are things at home?”  
  
Morgan gave her a knowing look, “Besides choosing to ignore the topic change from your ‘Nicky’, things aren’t so well. That’s actually why I’m in the city. I’m looking for a place.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“I’m leaving Rick. Honestly, the man’s a bastard. I can’t have Sarah growing up anymore in that kind of environment. After this week, this will be the last she ever sees of him if I have my way.”  
  
Vivien sighed, holding Isaac to her as she kissed his forehead, “Wow, we really have such great taste in men, don’t we?”  
  
“Don’t we just? At least you’ve got a chance to redeem yourself.”  
  
“Morgan…”  
  
“I know, I know. Shutting up now.”  
  
Vivien laughed, opening her mouth to reply, only to be cut off as a shadow loomed over them, a large hand suddenly wrapping around Morgan’s throat. Vivien panicked, leaping forward to fight off the assailant, only to be thrown back by an invisible barrier.  
  
She hit the floor, struggling against the weight restraining her as she found herself staring up into the leering face of Samson Gray, faced with a nasty grin as he pushed his booted foot down against her stomach.  
  
Of course. Gray’s power to summon a telekinetic shield.  
  
Her eyes widened as she listened to the choking sounds coming from Morgan, horror rushing through her as she tried and failed to summon her power in hopes of flinging away both men.  
  
She tried again and again, flailing beneath Gray, watching helplessly as Hal Sanders- a man with enhanced strength- tightened his hand around Morgan’s throat, crushing her windpipe with a simple flick of his wrist.  
  
“Morgan!!!”  
  
A rough hand closed over her mouth, stifling her screams as Morgan’s neck was broken with a sickening crunch, her friend’s lifeless body falling down to the tiled floor with a thud. Sanders looked down at the body with disdain, turning an equally disgusted expression toward the infant screaming on the nearby bench.  
  
Vivien’s heart sank. _Isaac_.  
  
She lurched forward, struggling to get to her son, only to be thrown back by Gray’s heavier weight. She spat at him, earning a slap in reply as she watched fearfully, Sanders picking the crying baby up by the back of his shirt.  
  
“Fuck, Gray. Can’t you let the bitch shut up her kid? He’s making me testy.”  
  
Gray eyed Vivien, suspiciously, giving in with a curt nod as he allowed her to rise up into a sitting position, locking one arm behind her back as Sanders shoved Isaac into the crook of the other.  
  
She cradled her son against her chest, whispering to him soothingly as his sobs began to quiet, and he snuggled closer to his mother, letting out the occasional whimpering sniffle with that baby intuition that all was still not well.  
  
Samson snorted with disgust as he watched the mother and child, twisting Vivien’s wrist hard enough to cause a grimace of pain, biting hard against her lip to keep from making noise.  
  
“Christ, woman. That little mixed bastard of yours has got a wicked set of lungs. What the hell were you thinking, anyway? Fucking a spic was bad enough, but to actually have the wetback’s kid? Disgusting!”  
  
Vivien spat at him, and Gray struck her across the face, Viv sheltering Isaac tightly against her bosom as she fell back. “Why don’t we just get it over with, Sam?” was Sanders’ question, his expression bored, “Just kill the whore and let’s move on.”  
  
“Not yet. Ellis was expendable, but this one’s special. We want to get to Linderman; we have to go through his precious mimic. I’ve seen him practice. He’s good, grease-ball or not. And considering he’s this bitch’s new fuck-buddy, we’ve got some leverage to take out Linderman’s precious little golden boy.”  
  
Vivien kicked at him, her lips pulling back in a disdainful sneer, “You’re disgusting, the both of you. What are you planning by doing something this stupid?”  
  
Gray cocked an eyebrow, stopping Sanders as he raised his hand to strike a blow, “Calm down, Hal. You leave bruises, we’ll get the kid all uptight and dangerous. As for you, babe. We’re taking out Linderman’s operation. It’s about time he showed some respect to everyone he expects to play lapdog to his goddamn dictatorship.”  
  
“You’re insane. Linderman? He’ll demolish you. He controls everything. He’s too powerful.”  
  
“Everyone has a weakness. Even that son of a bitch. The element of surprise will be on our side.”  
  
But apparently, it wasn’t only them the element of surprise was favoring that afternoon.  
  
A door at the end of the corridor suddenly exploded upon, three thugs suddenly thrown across the space and landing hard against the wall, dropping to the floor like flies. Nico appeared in the doorway, more menacing than Vivien had ever seen him; dark eyes glittering and black hair whipping around his face, face twisted with barely restrained rage.  
  
He threw up a hand, sending Hal Sanders flying off his feet. Gray was barely able to resist, holding out with his shield, the strain clear in his expression as he stood his ground against Nico’s power. Nico spared a glance at Morgan’s lifeless body, another at Vivien and Isaac.  
  
Vivien found herself shivering at the glazed, cold look present in those dark eyes, usually so warm and loving.  
  
A groaning echoed through the hallway and a couple of Sanders and Gray’s cronies began to stir, rousing themselves up on shaky limbs.  
  
Nico’s eyes narrowing was the only warning for what happened next, a couple flicks of his fingers and flames sprung up on one man’s clothing, the screaming rhythmic in time with the startled shout of another as Nico pulled him forward telekinetically,  
  
Phasing a hand through the man’s chest, he suddenly jerked, the figure shouting with pain and doubling over as Nico let him fall to the floor. Nico bent down, checking the man’s pulse and gave a satisfactory nod, wiping off his blood-soaked hand against his jeans.  
  
Vivien’s stomach lurched as she watched the macabre scene: Nico had burst the man’s heart by hand.  
  
His ability was split in more than one direction; pinning Sanders to a wall, chipping away at Gray’s shield, and focusing on each of the two men’s accomplices. With slow, deliberate steps, Nico approached the third man, still blissfully unconscious.  
  
“This is your last breath,” was Nico’s whispered demand, and with that, the rise and fall of the man’s chest stopped completely.  
  
Vivien clutched Isaac tightly to her, rocking him and pressing his face away from the grisly goings-on, desperately trying to ignore the gasps and chokes as the man’s lungs closed off, the face turning blue and the tongue hanging limply at the side of the gaping mouth.  
  
Gray’s shield finally collapsed and Nico acted instantly, throwing up his hand to send both remaining men flying toward the window, glass shattering as they fell through, plummeting down toward a thirty-story drop.  
  
Raising a shield to protect Vivien and Isaac from harm, Nico knelt down beside the pair, peering down at Vivien with soft, worried eyes.  
  
“Bella, are you two alright?”  
  
“Nicky…you…”  
  
Nico grimaced, swallowing hard, “I had to. Morgan wasn’t the only one. There are nine more dead, Viv. They would have hurt you…”  
  
Watching his eyes transform once more, the very picture of a broken man reflected back at her as Nico Rossi burst into tears right then and there, “Daniel told me I had to do it. Whatever was necessary to protect you and Isaac. I couldn’t let them…please don’t hate me, Vivien.”  
  
Vivien wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close, noting with tears of her own that Isaac slipped his little arms around Nico’s forearm, pressing his face into the sleeve.  
  
“I could never hate you, Nicky. Never. My boys are okay, that’s all that matters.”  
  
She pressed a kiss to his brow, blinking back the sting of more tears as she leaned her head atop of his.  
  
“That’s all that matters.”  
  
++  
  
“Ginny!”  
  
At the shout echoing through the house, followed by the slamming of the front door, startling Virginia Gray away from her needlework. Rising to her feet and heading to the living room, intent on reprimanding Samson for threatening to wake up four-year-old Gabriel from his nap, she froze right in her tracks.  
  
Samson was frantically searching for something as he dug through piles of papers, his clothes in tatters and his pant legs coated in dry blood. “Samson?”  
  
Samson whirled around to face her, breathing heavily, face covered in raw scratches and cuts as he shoved a piece of paper into her hand, “We have to start packing now, Ginny. Read this. This is our life now.”  
  
As her husband flew into the next room, Virginia stared down into the paper denoting a change of location and identity for the Gray family.  
  
Gray, Samson thought to himself as he moved through the house, rousing Gabriel from his sleep with a gruff order to gather clothes from his closet. Gray areas that stood out in life for men like him, made him the bad guy in the eyes of the straight-and-narrow.  
  
It was the close-minded that thought in strict guidelines of black and white, pompous asses like Daniel Linderman, and even weirdo vigilantes like Nico fucking Rossi.  
  
Gray. His life was in segments of gray now, just like his name.  
  
If he left those gray shadows, it would mean his death.


	31. Generations IV

_Manhattan- February, 1979  
_  
“It’s taken care of then?”  
  
Daniel looked up from the file he had been perusing through, casting a speculative glance in Angela Petrelli’s direction, “It is.”  
  
“Sanders and Gray got away without any trouble? You warned them off well enough?”  
  
“I did. I paid them off well enough and left them with explicit promises that I would have them eliminated if they interfered in Company business again.”  
  
“Good,” she crossed the room, idly running her fingers along the oak surface of his desk, “I suppose you want news on Arthur?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
“He’s fallen back into the depression again. He’s lost his drive. They can medicate him all they want, but this last disaster has pushed him over the edge. He plans to leave the group.”  
  
Daniel nodded solemnly as he took in each word, steepling his fingers as he leaned forward, “Is he now? Does he plan to withhold the Petrelli family funds?”  
  
“Not if I have anything to do with it.”  
  
“Good,” Daniel’s mouth curved into a satisfied smile, “Good.”  
  
Angela’s brows shot up to her hairline, and she said nonchalantly, “So are you ever going to tell me just how much of a hand you had in all this, or am I going to guess?”  
  
“I’d love to hear your hypothesis, Angie. Hear that brilliant mind being put to use is always a pleasure.”  
  
“I think this whole thing has your handiwork written all over it. You goaded Gray and Sanders into taking violent action and you turned Rossi on them. You allowed their deaths to be faked and then you send them away. They played their parts as your pawns and at the same time you weeded out bad seeds.   
  
I think you were looking for a way to get to Arthur once and for all, chuck out the final straw to break the camel’s back. You know how he feels about the operation, and about abusing the abilities your people have been given. You’ve disillusioned him. It was only a matter of time. You just needed the right push.   
  
An added bonus to the whole thing is you brought young Rossi further under your thumb. He knows now what he’s capable of, and with the sensitivity he possesses, it will scare him. He’ll naturally look to you for guidance.”  
  
Angela perched herself at the edge of his desk, demurely crossed her ankles and arched an inquisitive eyebrow at him, “Well? Am I missing anything?”  
  
“You, my dear, are very astute.”  
  
“And you, Daniel. You’re a genius.”  
  
“Glad you think so,” he caught her hand, pressed a chaste kiss to the palm and settled back in his chair to attend once more to his reading, “Angie?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Bring Nathan by tomorrow, won’t you? I’d like to see him.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Hmm…and Angie?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Do you have any other engagements this afternoon?”  
  
“Nothing pressing.”  
  
“Good,” he pressed another kiss to her hand, those nearly unnaturally bright eyes boring into hers, “Lock the door.”  
  
Angela moved to do as he requested, falling back into a familiarity of the routine. They’d been down this road: so many, many times before.   
  
++  
  
_Albany, New York- 1969_  
  
“You have to think positively, Daniel. Having doubts won’t do your wife or child any good.”  
  
Daniel Linderman was pacing furiously in the hospital waiting room, impatiently tossing his head in response to Charles Deveaux’s intention of calming him down. “How am I supposed to think positively? No one will tell me a damn thing.”  
  
Angela Petrelli frowned from her place nearby, standing at her husband’s side and she moved to go to him, restrained back by Arthur’s hand clamping down on her shoulder. She turned her head around to meet the lawyer’s stern frown, nodding his head in the direction of the doctor heading toward them.   
  
Daniel was instantly at the physician’s side, hounding the man for news on the expecting Hayden but from the expression on the doctor’s face, the outcome could not have been good.   
  
Daniel rubbed a hand tiredly over his face, curtly motioning Angela over to his side, telling her gruffly, “Hayden doesn’t want me in the delivery room. She’s requested you. Go.”  
  
Briefly pausing to squeeze Daniel’s hand, surprised when he gripped hers tightly in return, Angela nodded her consent, making her way into Hayden Linderman’s delivery room.   
  
++  
  
“It was a boy.”  
  
Angela watched on as Daniel stood by the window of his office, staring down onto the city seven stories below, his solemn declaration filling the silence of the room. “He was to be named David,” he continued, tone quiet and grieving, “Our very own King David. A leader.”  
  
“He would have been his father’s image,” she whispered to him as she approached from behind, resting her hands against his shoulders, “Strong and proud and vigilant.”  
  
“She’s gone, Angie. They both are.”  
  
Three weeks had passed since Hayden had gone into early labor, losing her and Daniel’s last attempt at having a child; only to succumb herself as her third and final son- the first to be carried to maturity and not miscarried- drew his first and final breath. It had taken this long for Daniel to come back to himself, and these were the first words Angela had heard him speak in the two and a half weeks since they had buried his family.   
  
“I’m sorry, Daniel.” The sincerity was there, her grief for him for real, and yet there weren’t any real words she could muster that would make any of this any better for him.   
  
He nodded and they stood there in silence for a while, the quiet broken by the oddest question Angela was sure she would ever hear from the man before her, “Angie…do you love me?”  
  
Angela stared at him, blue eyes fixated on her so intently and she whispered, “You know I do.”  
  
“Would you do anything for me?”  
  
Taking in a shuddering breath, Angela slowly nodded.   
  
++  
  
And thirty-six weeks later, on an early March morning in 1970, under the watchful eye of the Linderman group, Nathan Daniel Petrelli was brought into the world.   
  
++  
  
_Queens, October 1979_  
  
“Ti amo.”  
  
“Don’t say things like that.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because it’s dangerous…”  
  
She rolled away from him, shrugging away his attempt to embrace her. He simply smiled sadly, settling his weight against a propped-up elbow, skimming his fingers lightly down the exposed expanse of her back, a delightful mix of creamy skin and smooth muscle beneath his fingertips. She shifted away from his touch and he slipped his arms around her waist to hold her fast, pulling her closer despite her protests.  
  
Arms around her and legs entwined, he maneuvered until she resting lightly on top of him, causing him to frown as he felt the nearly weightless pressure against his torso. She was so slight, so delicate, that whenever he touched her he was afraid of breaking her, until the moments when she looked at him with a familiar fierceness in her eyes, kissed him with a voracious fire so solely and beautifully Vivien that he was reminded that no matter how deceptive the outer shell, the strength within was astounding.  
  
To see those awing qualities in a person, to feel that familiar wave of protectiveness despite her capability to take care of herself, to be in wonder of everything about her, mind, body and soul, to look at her and know she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, that was love, wasn’t it?  
  
So why couldn’t she see it?  
  
She had long given into the embrace, nestling her head against his shoulder, her hand absently running along his chest in stroking motions, its owner too deep in thought to notice.   
  
He caught the caressing hand, raised it to his lips, and pressed a soft kiss to the palm. She watched him without a word, eyes as dark and thick as ebony and just as unreadable.  
  
“What is it you’re afraid of, mio cuore? Carlos, the Company, my loving you?”  
  
Her lips thinned into a familiar line of stubborn defiance. “They’re the same thing. All dangerous.”  
  
“Maybe…but they’re not the same. We both know that…why don’t you want to accept that I love you?”  
  
Her eyes were bright as she turned away from him once more. “Because I don’t deserve it!”  
  
“Vivien…” The tears in her eyes made his heart ache.  
  
“I’m married, Nicky. I have another man in my bed while my two-year-old son is sleeping in the next room. Why would I deserve it?”  
  
With a soft gasping breath, half-sob, she burrowed back against him, arms clinging to the solid reassurance of him. He held her close, kissed her forehead, cradled her body against his.  
  
“Don’t say it,” she said in a broken whisper, “Just don’t say it again.”  
  
“Why not?” He closed his eyes painfully as the empathy of their connection kicked in, the weight of her anguish crashing over him in unyielding waves.   
  
_It’ll kill me to hear it again_. It was a thought he could nearly hear himself.   
  
The impending silence was the only response she could give him.  
  
xx  
  
_Queens, February 1980_  
  
“There you go, son.”  
  
The endearment coming from Nico caught Vivien off-guard. From her place in the kitchen fixing sandwiches for lunch, she turned her head to watch Nico and Isaac in the former’s workspace, a canvas spread out on the floor as Isaac went to work smearing his finger paints into colorful, intricate patterns.   
  
“Nicky, are sure you want him using your painting canvas? I could just him some construction paper.”  
  
“It’s fine. I’ll frame it and hang it up later. He’s a natural, bella.”  
  
“Is he now?”  
  
She moved to pass him by in order to put lunch on the table, but he caught her by the elbow, pulling her back toward him as he pinned her body against his.   
  
“Vivien…listen…”  
  
“Not now.”  
  
He sighed, looking down at her with soft eyes that never failed to warm her heart.  
   
“Nicky…”  She reached forward, leaning closer as she intended to kiss his cheek, but he turned his head with a sudden movement, sealing his lips over hers.  
  
Their kisses, even when simple, were the most beautiful things she had ever experienced (besides Isaac’s existence). This one was close-lipped and chaste, the contact gentle, as his mouth softly brushed over hers, a feathery caress that inflamed her body and heart as he drew her closer, arms curving around her waist.  
  
She reached back, tangling her fingers through the silky dark tresses at his nape, giving herself over fully to the feel of him, his lips, his arms, his hands as they slowly, sensually trailed upward from her waist, skimming up her back, caressing the silken skin left exposed by her sweater riding up with their movements.   
  
His touch left heated shivers in their wake.  
  
Nico pressed a few stray kisses to her neck, separating himself from her after helping her reestablish her balance on shaky knees. She braced a hand against his shoulder, pressing her lips to his ear just before he passed by to return to Isaac, “The bedroom, after Isaac goes down for his nap.”  
  
He nodded, “Of course. We have unfinished business, bella.”  
  
++  
  
He felt the silken texture of honey-brown hair as he brushed the stray tresses away from her face.  
  
The sensual pleasure of warm, smooth skin against his as she arched into him.  
  
As his lips found hers, drowning him in the heady passion that swamped the whole of his being.  
  
Desire raged through him, coursing through his very veins with the blood rushing to his head, keeping in time with his wild pulse. Love and lust warred inside; a battle neither could win as black and white faded into a sweet gray, instigated by the passion that enveloped his mind and body.  
  
The heat radiating from their bodies made the chill of the night air seem warm again. Her hands were at his hips, guiding him in a rhythm seemingly familiar and yet so foreign. This was real; this was in reach…he had been so long without her…  
  
Nails slid across his back, biting down into flesh as he moved, the sleek muscles beneath her fingers rippling with a power all his own, her low cries echoing through his head as his pace quickened. Hands clinging to his shoulders, submitting now to the pleasure that coursed through them both. He felt her shiver, felt her tremble, felt her writhe beneath him.  
  
His hands roamed her body, each brush of skin and touch of hand driving him closer and closer to the edge. The feelings welled up inside, raging out of control. Pain was a distant memory, a whisper on the very edge of consciousness, and pleasure won out in the end. Only pleasure remained.  
  
Broken words, half-formed thoughts spilled from his lips, unintelligible as his heart pounded in his ears, as his body shuddered and convulsed. He whispered to her, of how beautiful she was, how special she was to him, how much he had missed her, how much he loved her.  
  
As he dipped his head to kiss her again, the taste of salt of her lips, the warm moisture on her face, startled him out of his passion-induced daze. Tears spilled from her eyes, shining in the faint sunlight streaming through the closed curtains, the only illumination revealing the twin silhouettes among the tangled sheets.   
  
Her hands at his back pushed him forward to hold his closer, her face hidden against his neck as the tears kept falling, wet and warm against his skin, her body wracking with sobs as she found a different release, a lifting of the pain and struggle of the past year.  
  
“Why? Why do you say things like that? Why can’t I make you understand? Why do you love me?”  
  
“Because you’re so strong, so beautiful, so kind. I love you, bella.”  
  
The power he held over her was startling, amazing, frightening. With a single touch, she could be reduced to a trembling mess in his arms. With the sound of his voice, she knew she was lost in her struggles to distance herself from him. His touch, his words, his love, all of it was different from any others.   
  
She would never have another.  
  
There was a time when she would have resented someone having such a hold on her, weakening her to the point where her want for him became a need. But part of her was glad for her surrender, her tired submission.   
  
It would never be dominance on his part, but a strength that would be there for her to lean on, to support her, to encourage her; it would be strength for her to share.  
  
She heard the rustle of the sheets, the graceful movement of his body, dimly aware of his gentle hands lifting her and nestling her against him, safe and warm as his arms moved to encircle her.   
  
She pressed her cheek against his chest; the telltale sign of her own tears moist on his skin. But she felt no shame as she dropped a kiss to the flushed skin, closing her eyes to surrender to sleep.  
  
The feel of him inside her, against her, beside her. That was real. That was home.  
  
“Nico, I love you, too.”  
  
++  
  
“Are you ever going to tell me why you’ve been trying so hard to push me away?”  
  
“You deserve better. So much better than me. I’m just going to be a burden to you, Nicky.”  
  
“And I will not be to you? Do you truly think I do not come with…how is it you always say, baggage of my own? With the disaster my power has become, it shocks me you still allow me near you and Isaac.”  
   
“We’re a real pair, aren’t we?”  
  
“I say we compromise. We deserve each other, how about that?” in response to her soft laughter, Nico grinned, kissing her hand.   
  
She propped herself up on an elbow, smiling softly as she combed her fingers through his recently-shorn hair, “I can’t believe you had to cut it. I liked it long.”  
  
“Company orders. Lewis says it’ll be better for concentration.”  
  
“Lewis?”

“Lewis Rains. He’s the man Linderman has training me,” he leaned upward, tracing the curve of her cheek before he kissed her softly, “See? It will get better soon. I will learn to control the power, and we can stop relying so much on the Company. Soon enough, the three of us…”  
  
She watched his face flush as he realized the implications of what he was saying and she just smiled, resting her head against his chest, “A family? We already are.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
He smiled, pleased with the warm feeling spreading through him as he dropped a kiss to her head, settling back in the bed for much-needed rest, “Happy Valentine’s, bella.”


	32. Generations V

Nico was gentle by nature.  
  
He had always seemed so strange to her, so strange in his quiet, gentle ways. So gentle toward her, his words and his expressions, the soft looks in his eyes and his friendly touches; later, even as bodies pressed together and entangled in passionate embraces, he was always gentle.  
  
Every time she tried to push him away, her memories of him refused to leave her alone, memories of her gentle lover taking residence in her mind no matter how hard she tried to drive them away.   
  
When he had held her, his body strong and firm against hers, his arms had been unyielding but careful as they wrapped around her, holding her close as if she were a fragile piece of artwork or a precious antique.  
  
His kisses were always so like her Nicky, slow, thorough, languorous…passionate, but ever so gentle. His touches, like the caress of a feather, light but lingering, slender and warm fingers stroking her skin, along her back, her arms, her stomach, her hips.  
  
She had always feared it would be Nico’s gentleness that she would put in danger, that she would taint or warp him in some way that the man she had known and loved would only become a fleeting memory in her mind.  
  
Instead, it was the double-edged sword they called his power that did the tainting for them.   
  
The last of her underclothing fell away to join the dress at her feet, and she stood before him, the coolness of the air odd against her naked skin, vulnerable and strangely fearful as his eyes slowly trailed over her bare body, the imprint of their intensity almost tangible against her skin.  
  
And then his own clothing fell away, and his arms encased her, his hands calloused but soft against her body, and in the end, it was always his gentleness that worked to undo her.  
  
++  
  
_Brooklyn, 1980_  
  
“Oh, Derek, what have you done?”  
  
Half-obscured in shadow or not, the guilt clouding Derek Hawkins’ face was still blatantly obvious, his tone low and apologetic, “I’m sorry, Viv. I didn’t have any other choice.”  
  
Vivien’s eyes were soft as she leaned back against the hood of his car, “He’s looking for you, Der.”  
  
“Linderman. I know. That’s why I have to stay on step ahead of his goons.”  
  
“Then why ask me to meet you? Why not just get the hell out of dodge?”  
  
Derek Hawkins rubbed a hand over his face; looked around the shadowed parking garage he’d asked Vivien Mendez to meet him in that night, “You’ve been one of my only friends in that place. I just wanted to say goodbye.”  
  
Vivien sighed softly, “How much did you take, Derek?”  
  
“About two million.”  
  
Vivien cursed under her breath, “How could you do something so stupid? Not only to embezzle money from the Company, but to take so much?”  
  
“I had to. I needed the money. I needed a way to get the hell away from the Company, Viv.”  
  
“I know it’s bad. Trust me, I know. Why go to such an extreme?”  
  
“Do you remember when I told that after Linderman got me out of prison, Paulette refused to take me back? That she stopped contacting me?”  
  
At the mention of Derek’s ex, Vivien nodded, suspicion rising in her mind, “Yes.”  
  
He gave her a rueful smile, “I lied.”  
  
Seeing the hurt in her eyes, Derek watched her guiltily but continued on with his story, “I have a kid, Viv. He’s turning four soon.”  
  
Vivien smiled softly, “What’s his name?”  
  
“Derek Lawrence. I have a son, Vivien. I can’t…I can’t let Linderman find out about him. You know what he wants for the Company’s children.”  
  
“I know,” she paused thoughtfully, “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You want to disappear?”  
  
Derek nodded and opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by a voice echoing through the empty garage, the accented reverberation instantly recognizable despite the hardened tone, “I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”  
  
Vivien’s head whipped around, taking in the sight of her lover stalking toward them. His handsome face was twisted into a scowl, dark eyes cold as they darted from one guilty figure to another. His jaw clenched as he locked his gaze on Vivien. “Nicky.”  
  
“Vivien,” his eyes swung back to Derek, a wave of his hand sending the older man flying backward to pin him harshly against his car. Derek landed against the hard metal with a grunt; Vivien’s startled exclamation echoing as she ran to his side.   
  
“Nicky, what the hell are you doing?”  
  
“What I was ordered to do.” He pushed Vivien away from the other man with a psychic shove, albeit much gentler than Derek, but still enough of a force to receive a betrayed look from her.

“Rossi, c’mon man, let me explain!”

“There’s nothing to explain, Hawkins. You stole from the Company.”  
  
“Nicky, don’t do this,” Vivien cried desperately, staring at her lover with wide, betrayed eyes.   
  
Ignoring her pleas and Derek’s protests, Nico reached into the pocket of his leather jacket- something Vivien bitterly remembered being a gift from her, one she had always been so happy he treasured it the way he did- and pulled out a small walkie-talkie, speaking into the static, “Location confirmed. I have him.”  
  
Knowing better than to try and attempt to fight against the dangerous power possessed by her lover, Vivien could only stand by helplessly as the van pulled up and Linderman’s men dragged Derek away in handcuffs.   
  
She lunged herself at Nico as soon as the men were out of sight, raising her hand intent on striking him, but he caught her wrist, wrestling her back to pin her to what would have been Derek’s get-away car. He closed his mouth firmly against hers, nipping not so gently at her lower lip to demand access to the recesses of her mouth.   
  
He kissed her fiercely, cupping her face to angle her head to allow him better access, ignoring her soft sounds of protest as he sought to stake a claim, to take control.   
  
Nico broke away after a few moments, leaning his forehead against her as his breath came out in harsh, baited pants, Vivien’s breasts heaving against him as she struggled for air of her own.   
  
“Never, never,” he hissed down at her, “Do anything again to risk putting yourself on Daniel’s bad side. Everything I do, mio amore, is to protect you. Us. Did you even think about the baby?”  
  
She glared at him, her arms wrapping protectively around her abdomen, the life growing inside only now starting to show at five months, “I was thinking my friend was in trouble. How could you betray me like that, Nicky? Or Derek? Are you that much Linderman’s lapdog now?”  
  
Nico swore viciously under his breath, “Do you think I like doing any of this? It’s for you, Vivien, all for you. And Isaac. And our son. I will do anything to protect us from that man. Anything.”  
  
She blinked bemusedly, staring up at him with a puzzled expression, “Son?”  
  
“Oh,” his face softened, “I didn’t mean to spoil it. The baby…”  
  
“A boy,” her voice was quiet, awe-filled, “You can sense that?”  
  
“Among other things. You know I connect with you like I do no other,” he touched his hands to her stomach tenderly, “I follow orders, and our family stays safe, bella. That’s the way it has to be.”  
  
Something in his tone caught her attention and her gaze was sharp as she cupped his face, forcing him to meet her eyes, “Nicky, has he made threats?”  
  
He laughed bitterly, no humor to be found in the strangled sound as he ran a hand fretfully through his annoyingly short hair, “Every day.”  
  
A sudden muffled sound from Nico’s walkie-talkie broke into their conversation, “Rossi. Do you read me? Come back to home-base, the target has been eliminated. I repeat, come back to home-base.”  
  
Watching Vivien’s hand fly up to cover her mouth, tears filling her eyes, her resulting sobs tore at Nico’s heart as his jaw dropped, stammering out disbelieving denials, “No, no, no. Daniel said he wouldn’t hurt him. He said he just wanted the money back.”  
  
He pounded his fist against his forehead, mumbling to himself, “…he said he wouldn’t hurt him…”  
  
Vivien stared at him numbly, “Never take Daniel Linderman at face value. Never.”  
  
Something shifted in Nico right then and then man before her transformed, not quite her lover but some shadowed version of him. He kissed her softly, tasting her tears, his eyes distant as he pulled back and reached into his jacket, pulling out a small handgun Linderman had issued to him.   
  
He calmly loaded a fresh cartridge into the weapon, cocking the weapon to inspect the aim, “Go get Isaac from the sitter’s. Then go home.”  
  
He kissed her again, a little desperately this time as he tangled his hand in her hair, savoring the feel of her. “Lock the door,” he whispered against her lips, “Don’t let anyone in. Not even me. Not until morning.”  
  
Pressing his lips against her forehead, a moment later, he was gone.   
  
++  
  
The explosion that would follow would forever change the history of their generation and beyond.   
  
“LINDERMAN!!!!”  
  
There was a slaughter left behind of nearly three dozen of guards by the time Nico came crashing through the doors of Linderman’s office, the room immediately beginning to violently tremble at the intensity of the power radiating from the young man.   
  
“MURDERER!!!”  
  
The hoarse scream echoed as the windows exploding, a startled Daniel yelping with pain as splinters dug into his skin, ducking behind his desk to escape the carnage.   
  
“Threatening my family wasn’t ENOUGH!!!!!??? MY LOVER, MY SONS?!!!!!!”  
  
The desk sent hurtling into the air crushed Daniel Linderman painfully against the wall behind him, and the attack would have continued, if not for the tranquilizer that suddenly dug into Nico’s neck, sending him tumbling to the ground.   
  
And his world went black.   
  
++  
  
“…you should have expected this…”  
  
“…a slight miscalculation…”  
  
“A miscalculation that almost got you killed.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter now. They put him down like the animal he’s become.”  
  
“What will you do with him now?”  
  
“Lock him away. Keep him medicated. He won’t be a danger to anyone else any longer.”  
  
“What about the girl? The bastard child?”  
  
“That’s where you come in, Angie. You and that sterile weakling you have the misfortune of calling your husband.”  
  
“…what do you need from me…?”  
  
++  
  
_Mount Sinai Hospital, September 17th, 1980_  
  
Niccolo Carlo Giovanni Rossi’s entrance into the world was a violent one, brought about by an emotionally-distraught mother and an emergency C-section, leaving Vivien Mendez unconscious from blood loss and the child on a ventilator to aid him in his first breaths.   
  
Angela Petrelli and Daniel Linderman watched the baby through the window, Angela’s nose wrinkling with disgust, “Weak, Daniel. Sickly. You expect me to take that into my family?”  
  
“To give him the protection of Arthur’s name, yes. To watch him closely for signs of Rossi’s power manifesting.”  
  
“All right…” a sigh of resignation, “What shall I call him? I won’t give him that disgraceful name…”  
  
“Peter. The weak link that became the rock of the church. He may just surprise us yet, Angie. He may prove to be more than his father’s son.”  
  
++  
  
_Manhattan, 1990_  
  
Charles Deveaux was old, feeling the great burden of his years weighing down on him like never before. There was no refuting the fact that he was aging.  
  
Lying idly in his bed, passing the days in thought and sleep and light reading, he was painfully aware of just how unnaturally tired he felt.  
  
His life had passed him in such a strange combination, as quickly as the single blink of an eye, in other places as slowly and steady as the lazy flowing of a river. He had played so many roles throughout his life, as teacher, as humanitarian, as hero, as husband, as father.   
  
It was a rare occasion that he could steal away from the watchful eye of his daughter and nurse to come up to this rooftop, marveling in the city below and the wonders of the skies above him.   
  
“Hello, Charles.”  
  
Charles took no startling to the appearance of the bearer to that familiar voice, only responding pleasantly, “Hello, Angela,” he paused for a beat, “I hear Nathan declared his major as pre-law. Congratulate him for me.”  
  
“Of course. He has much to be proud of.”  
  
“And Peter? He’s well?”  
  
“…as well as can be expected…”  
  
“I heard Daniel denied your wish to send him to boarding school. That eager to be rid of the boy, Angela?”  
  
Angela scoffed and though he did not turn around, Charles’s could imagine her expressive disdain, “He looks more and more like his father every day, Charles. Why shouldn’t I be wary?”  
  
“You know it was a mistake to take him in. You should have left him with his mother.”  
  
“Vivien Mendez is living quite happily with her son and his father. She has no recollection that her lover or that the boy ever existed.”  
  
Charles’s lips curled distastefully, “A man who abuses her. A son who will never know his brother…” a soft sigh, “A lover she adored and a boy she loved very much for the nine months she was given with him.”  
  
“None of that matters now.”  
  
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”  
  
A sigh, “I heard from Daniel about your dream.”  
  
“Then you know what’s coming.”  
  
“I know what we’ll have to sacrifice, and what we’ll have to prepare. Nathan will do us all proud, Charles. You’ll see.”  
  
“What makes you so sure he will be the key?”  
  
“He is Daniel’s son. He’ll step up and be every bit the leader his father is.”  
  
“…at what cost…? And yet again, you ignore the prophecy I gave you last year…”  
  
“It has no relevance.”  
  
“Doesn’t it?” Charles asked her wryly, “I know she’s here, Angela. The healer. You haven’t told Daniel of her existence, have you? Of the granddaughter you share.”  
  
“Daniel doesn’t have to know of Nathan’s folly. Nothing to blemish the image he has of his son.”  
  
“I see. And the cost of Peter becoming a Petrelli means nothing to you? He is the lover, Angela. He is destined for her. Putting them in this situation will only prolong the inevitable.”  
  
“Not if I have anything to do with it.”  
  
“So what? You’ll raise them as family? It won’t stop anything, Angela. They will find their way to each other.”  
  
He turned toward her, his back against the setting sun and his countenance solemn, “The lover and the healer will come together, and from them will come our hope- the heart of the people. He will be the man his father and grandfather were always hoping to be. He will be the one we need.”  
  
He looked her directly in the eye, “He will be your great-grandson, Angela. There is no stopping fate. Peter and the girl will come together, regardless of any interference…family or not…”  
  
“…it’s destiny…love will be the answer to everything…”


	33. Upside-Down, Inside Out

“This doesn’t change anything.”  
  
The comment caught Peter by surprise despite his feeling her presence at his side long before she chose to speak. He grunted out an unintelligible reply, earning an exasperated sigh from her and the warm weight of her hands against his shoulders.   
  
“Did you hear me, Peter? This doesn’t change anything. Nathan is still your brother, just like he’s always been. Heidi and Simon and Monty are as much your family as before. That doesn’t have to change.”  
  
She paused for a moment and then commented wryly, “Except the fact that Angela’s more of a bitch then I ever gave her credit for. And out of the two of us, I’m the one with the misfortune of being blood-related to her.”  
  
“You didn’t grow up with her.”  
  
“Touché.”  
  
Peter huffed out a laugh, turning unseeing eyes up to the pallid ceiling, “If this doesn’t change anything, then you know that things aren’t any different between us, right?”  
  
A resigned sigh, the pressing of her cheek against his shoulder-blade. “I know,” she whispered.   
  
“Adopted or not, we’re still family. In Nathan’s eyes, in the world’s eyes, we’re still in the wrong.”  
  
“I told you nothing changes. I’m not naïve, Peter. The only thing this changes is the baby.”  
  
Peter cast her a quizzical look over his shoulder and Claire ran her hands down his arms, pressing a reassuring to the nape of his neck, “The baby’s safe. Genetic defects and all that. It doesn’t apply anymore.”  
  
“It doesn’t, does it?” his voice was soft, tender as the reminder of the life she was carrying.   
  
She shook her head, running her fingers through the foreign shortness of his hair, “No. Speaking of which, I need to ask you something and I need you to be truthful with me.”  
  
“Always, sweetheart.”  
  
“Exactly when did you know I was pregnant, Peter?”  
  
He turned around to face her, giving her a bemused look, “When I met up with you tonight. Why?”  
  
She stared at him, giving no indication of speech and Peter studied her for a long moment, eyes widening as realization set in, “Oh, god. Sweetheart, you can’t honestly think…” he cursed under his breath, dragging a hand fitfully through his hair, “Honey, if I’d known about the baby, there’s no way I would have gone anywhere. You have to believe that.”  
  
“Should I?”  
  
“Claire…”  
  
“I know. I know you wouldn’t have left otherwise. But it doesn’t change the fact that you did.”  
  
“Sweetheart-“  
  
She held up a hand, cutting him off as she shook her head, “Not now. We have more important things to worry about.”  
  
Peter nodded reluctantly, though everything inside him screamed against changing the topic, “Okay,” he took in a deep breath, leaning away from her and resting his tired body back against the wall, “Okay.”  
  
She gave him a sad smile, mimicking his position, “How are you handling all of this? I mean, about your parents?”  
  
“…I don’t know what I should be feeling…I mean, my father ended up locked up in a mental institution for half my life…and my mother…they took away any memory of me even existing…and then that drunk bastard of a husband kills them both in a car accident…what is there left for me? Memories clouded by Angela’s disgust toward them both?”  
  
“I’m sorry, baby. I wish there was something I could do to make it better. I wish…I dunno…I just wish…”  
  
“I know,” he sighed softly, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face, “I just…”  
  
She nodded, taking his hand as their fingers intertwined, giving it a gentle squeeze. Peter gave her a soft smile, “What do I do about Isaac?”  
  
“It’s your decision. No one can tell you otherwise.”  
  
“I just…I don’t...”  
  
“Just follow your intuition, Peter. Do what you think is best.”  
  
“That’s just it. I have no idea what that is.”  
  
++  
  
They walked back together, side by side with Claire’s arm looped through his as they returned to the family to hear the sounds of vehement bickering. Angela and Nathan were at each other’s throats, two men standing at the sidelines, the Haitian, and a tall man they didn’t recognize.   
  
The stranger turned toward them, offering a friendly smile as he approached them. Claire studied him the closer he came. Tall and broad-shouldered, featuring a strong, clean-shaven profile, handsome in a mature sort of fashion. Close-cut black hair slightly graying at the temples, a sign of an age she estimated to be somewhere in his early forties, a pair of baby blue eyes holding a warm look.   
  
Her brow furrowed, slightly disconcerted with the familiarity of his face, but she couldn’t quite put a finger on where she’d seen the resemblance before. The man held out his hand first to Claire, then to Peter.   
  
“I’m David Hayden,” there was a distinctive British accent to his voice, something that seemed to strangely suit the gentleman, “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Claire, you’re as beautiful as I imagined you would be. And my, Niccolo, you’ve certainly grown since the last time I saw you.”  
  
Peter blinked in confusion, glancing around to see his adoptive mother stiffen, “I’m sorry, but what did you call me?”  
  
David looked genuinely bewildered, “Nicholas. It is your name, am I right?”  
  
“No. It’s Peter, Peter Petrelli.”  
  
A look of recognition passed over David’s face and he threw an irritated glance in Angela’s direction, “I see. I’m guessing she didn’t tell you that part?”  
  
“What part?”  
  
“The name you were born with, boyo,” the longer he spoke, the deeper the accent to his voice became, “Niccolo Rossi. After your father.”  
  
Peter’s expression was inscrutable, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, just barely above a whisper, “I see. Thank you for telling me.”  
  
“Certainly. I heard a great deal of your father and you as well. Both brave individuals worthy of respect, my boy.”  
  
Peter smiled, the expression quickly fading into one of confusion, “Wait. You said we’ve met before.”  
  
David hummed thoughtfully, “I suppose not officially. I think you were about twelve or thirteen at the time. I was on holiday from Cambridge and I’d taken my first trip to New York. I came to see Angela there, and I caught a glimpse at you. Quite an active boy you were.”  
  
Peter nodded, blinking with a stunned look over his face, “Okay.”  
  
David then proceeded to undo the cuffs at his wrists, rolling up one of his shirt sleeves as he looked up expectantly at the assembled company, “Now then. Where do I go to be tested?”  
  
Nathan stiffened, “Excuse me.”  
  
“Tested,” David repeated, “Last I heard, little brother, your son’s life was in jeopardy.”  
  
“What did you call me?”   
  
Peter found himself rather darkly amused that it was the first time he had ever seen Nathan, control freak that he was, completely off-kilter. He shared baffled glances with Claire, reaching out to grasp her hand, delighted to have the contact returned with a light squeeze.   
  
David, meanwhile, sighed heavily, turning an exasperated glare in Angela’s direction, “Really, woman, don’t you tell them anything?”  
  
Angela merely arched an eyebrow, “The past is not always the business of children.”  
  
“I hate to break it to you, my dear, with as much as you still cling to Daniel’s ideals. But the past is gone. We are both the present and the future. Your time is over.”  
  
He turned toward Nathan, rubbing tiredly at his temples, “As for you, Nathan, allow me to reintroduce myself. David Hayden, born David Linderman. I believe that makes us half-brothers.”  
  
Nathan gaped, “But…you…weren’t you…”  
  
“Lost in childbirth? Not exactly. I’m perhaps the one and only time dear Angela over there defied Father.”  
  
Angela threw a disgusted look in his direction, “It was your mother’s last request to hide you from Daniel. She looked so pitiful I couldn’t refuse.”  
  
David snorted, “I’m sure there was some ulterior motive. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”  
  
Watching Nathan doing his best impression of a fish out of water, Peter leaned closer to the woman at his side, whispering into her ear, “He felt familiar. I sensed something from him I knew I’d felt before, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”  
  
Claire nodded, turning away to study the mysterious David Hayden once more. With the new revelation, she began to sort through what was so familiar about the man. She had never personally met Daniel Linderman, but in his eldest son, there were traces shared with Nathan, even strange correlations to her adopted father- evidence of the Bennet blood flowing through the man’s veins.  
  
“Now that everything’s clear, where do I go to get my blood tested?”  
  
++

David Hayden proved to be a perfect match. Both he and Simon were AB-, something inherited from Hayden and Daniel, and then Nathan and Heidi. Not to mention the recessive genes given to his son by Nathan, carried in his half-brother’s DNA. An hour after the lab came back with results; both Simon and David were sent to surgery.   
  
All they could do now was wait.


	34. Adrift

“Peter, what are you doing out here?”  
  
The sound of her voice, resounding like the clear ringing of bells, his name as sweet as a caress passing from her lips. It was a beautiful sound, soothing and distracting, grounding him back to reality from the flights of daydreams and useless lamentations.  
  
Why was it the sound of her voice could both make his world standstill and turn completely upside down? Did she have any idea what kind of power she held over him, just with the single, sweet melody of her voice?  
  
“Peter.” Not so softly his time, her voice laced with firmer insistence. And still, he refused to answer, refused to turn around. Any rational man knew it was idiotic and to blatantly ignore her, but he was a stubborn fool that way. Better to seem appear stubborn than pathetic.  
  
“They’re missing you in there.”  
  
He shook his head, his back to her as he stared unseeing at the skies above them. “No, not me. You should get back though.”  
  
Shrugging off his attempt to dissuade her, her voice softened, though ever more insistent. “Look at me. Peter.” She sighed his name this time, an exasperated sound, and with a rustle of fabric, he could sense her coming nearer. Fully aware of every point of her proximity, the pressure of her hand was light against his shoulder, as she beckoned him to turn toward her, and he complied, refusing still to meet her eyes.   
  
Mumbling under her breath about ornery uncles, she touched the opposite hand to his face, guiding his eyes to her view. Startled by what she found there, her expression softened, and slender fingers wiped away the tears spilling from his eyes. “Is this why you wouldn’t look at me? Your tears? Stubborn man.”  
  
Their touch was warm and soothing, comforting as he leaned into the caress, eyes closing of their own accord, droplets glistening against the thick lashes that feathered over his pale skin.   
  
He exhaled softly, the tension fading from his body with the breath as she continued her gentle explorations, tracing her fingers over the shape of his mouth and nose, the slope of his jaw and chin, upward to the arch of each eye, tickling the fine tufts of hair at his ear.  
  
After a moment, the touch was gone, slipping downward as she braced her hand against his shoulder, and she was suddenly leaning into him, her lips soft against his cheek, kissing away his remaining tears. His eyes fluttered open, gazing at her in awe as she pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. He reached out to take her hand, somehow desperate for the continued contact. She accepted without preamble, letting the joined limbs dangle in the small space between them, their fingers tightly enlacing.  
  
“Feeling better?” At his silent nod, she smiled softly, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Peter…will you tell me why you were crying?”  
  
“No…”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because…”  
  
She rolled her eyes, puzzled by the strange stubbornness, raising no protest as he suddenly drew her closer, not close enough for an embrace but close enough for the heat of his body to be comforting, rolling off of him in palpable waves. “Tell me why?” she pleaded softly, reaching up to brush away stray brown hairs shading his eyes, their soft hazel unreadable as they gazed down at her.  
  
“Stupid reasons…illogical reasons…”  
  
“Peter…” She smiled. “No, it’s not like you to be illogical.”  
  
He laughed softly, the fleeting show of mirth fading into a melancholy smile. “It feels like penitence, Claire. Hearing all that; watching Simon look so fragile.”  
  
He leaned his head against her shoulder, despite his greater height, and she listened quietly, absently stroking his hair as she absorbed his broken, whispered words. “It’s nothing but folly for me to be here, sweetheart.”  
  
“What are you talking about? Of course you should be here.” She fingered the collar of his dress shirt, skimming her fingers downward to trace the metallic shape of the of his belt buckle, nothing sexual behind the contact, only seeking the chance to offer the comfort of touch. “You’re just as much a part of this as the rest of us, Peter.”  
  
“Am I? It’s not even my family.”  
  
“Oh, Peter.” She laid her hand against his chest, just over his heart. “They care for you, love. That should be more than enough.”  
  
There was a long pause of silence between them, and she watched as tears pooled in his eyes once more. She reached up to wipe them away, but he caught her hand, brushing his lips against her fingertips in a fleeting kiss as he smiled. It was the same gentle smile she had come to adore so greatly, the same one she had come to think was special, reserved just for her, the smile that rendered his eyes, eyes the same rich hue of caramel brown, warm and loving as they gazed at her.  
  
She should not be reacting this way. His smile should not make her heart flutter. Her breath should not catch at the look in his eyes.  
  
“Claire…stay with me awhile? I don’t feel ready to go back just yet.”  
  
She nodded, feeling oddly shy as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tightly against him, her head tucked beneath his chin, back against his chest. His arms were strong and warm around her as they watched the stars together, Claire staring with the fascination of a child at the full face of the silver moon handing in the ebony skies above them, surrounded by the brilliance of thousands, countless thousands, of shimmering stars. “It’s so pretty,” she whispered, nestling closer to his warmth with a soft sigh of contentment.  
  
“Hmm, yes.” He dropped a kiss to the crown of her head.  
  
He should not love the feel of her so close to him.  
  
“Thank you. For everything you’ve being doing for me.”  
  
“I do it because I care, Peter. There’s not much that can change that. I…” She reached back, leaning closer as she intended to kiss his cheek, but he turned his head with a sudden movement, brushing his lips over hers. The kiss lingered, sweetly and simply for a moment, and then deepened with a reignited passions, hands running with restless hunger over clothes and into hair.   
  
As they drew apart, and she leaned against him for support, her vision full of the rich brown of his eyes, mouth swollen and green eyes dazed and dark, he smiled sadly, smoothing down the blond hairs that had escaped from her simple ponytail. And unspoken agreement passed between them, for this one moment of pretend, that they must now both return to playing their roles and forget this moment, or perhaps not forget, but forever cherish in the dark corners of their hearts, never to be spoken of again.  
  
She smoothed out imagined wrinkles in her shirt, and adjusted his collar, looking him wryly in the eye. A spark of her old fire in her eyes, and he grinned in response. One thing would always ring true. She would never change. She would always be his Claire. The one memory, and all the rest, would be his to forever hold on to.  
  
And he was hers, in heart, body, and mind, until he breathed his last breath.  
  
“We should probably get back.”  
  
He nodded, pressing a final kiss against her forehead before withdrawing, “Yeah. You’re probably right.”  
  
“Peter?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“This…doesn’t change anything. We can’t continue like this. You know that, right?”  
  
“I know.”   
  
Hero and cheerleader, uncle and niece (adopted or not), lover and lover, they stepped back into the hospital, embracing once more their games of pretend.  
  
They had to wonder who was it they were trying the hardest to fool: themselves, or everyone else?  
  
++  
  
“How’s he doing?”  
  
Nathan smiled weakly at his daughter as she had directed the question toward him, sitting restlessly in a seat across the corridor, “We don’t know anything for sure yet. Heidi’s in with him now- they’re only allowing one at a time.”  
  
As if thought could summon her very presence, Heidi chose that moment to step out of Simon’s room in the ICU, smiling warmly at the assembled family, “He’s awake. He’s asking for you, Nathan.”  
  
A fairly comfortable silence fell over the corridor, only interrupted by the soft footfalls of sneakers against linoleum floor, alerting Claire to her former lover’s approach. Peter stood before her, his face clouded with a solemn frown, holding two cups of coffee in hand.   
  
He handed one to Heidi, who accepted and gratefully thanking him. Claire declined the other and Peter only shrugged in reply, sidling off to wander the hallway as he finished his coffee, probably strong and black as Claire knew his preferences to lie in stressful situations.   
  
Watching him toss the Styrofoam cup in the trash after he had finished, Peter hesitated for a moment, then offered a faint smile before sitting down beside her,   
  
“So how’s our boy?” he warmly inquired of his sister-in-law.  
  
“The doctor’s not quite certain. He says we’ll have to wait and see if the transplant takes root, but he’s optimistic. It’s good news.”  
  
“I’m glad.”  
  
Claire felt him shift beside her, his jean-clad thigh pressing against hers as he moved restlessly in his seat. She turned toward him, eyes questioning as he bent his head down toward her. “Peter, what’s wrong?”  
  
“Can we talk?”  
  
She glanced around at the subdued family gathered in the waiting room and she nodded curtly, “Okay.”  
  
He took in a deep breath, letting it out with a shuddering air, “Claire, when this is over, I want you to come back with me.”  
  
Her eyes widened and her mouth opened to respond, but he held up his hand in a want for silence, “No, let me finish. You and me, things haven’t changed here for us…but now…now there’s nothing holding us back. The family’s in pieces; this city doesn’t have anything left to offer us.”  
  
“What are you saying, Peter?”  
  
He smiled softly, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, “I’m saying I want us to be a family. We can go, leave this all behind. We can raise our son together, finally make all this right.”  
  
Peter’s smile was expectant and good-humored, Claire stared at him blankly for a long silence. Her eyes were indecipherable as she quietly rose to her feet, coming around to stand in front of him, her lips pursing into a frown, “You are unbelievable.”  
  
“What?”  
  
She scoffed, “Hypocrite.”  
  
Peter’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursing into a frown, “Now wait just a second.”  
  
“No,” Claire shifted even further from him, hands on her hips as she stared him down, “I cannot believe your nerve. After everything’s we’ve been through, you have the audacity to ask me to go away with you.”  
  
“We have a chance now. We can finally do this.”  
  
“Because everything is on your time, Peter? How many times have you pushed me away?! How many times have you told me you would fight to keep me, that there was no way you would give up what we had, and then turn around and run at the first sign of pressure? How many times, Peter?!!”  
  
Her voice rose in volume, sharp with venom and rage and Peter leapt to his feet in response, now as vehemently defensive as the young woman standing before him, “Everything I did, I did because I thought it was the right thing to do.”  
  
“Right thing to do, my ass. We left right and wrong behind a long time ago, Peter. You know that as well as I do.”  
  
“That’s different.”  
  
“How?!! It’s the same thing. Whenever there was any threat of you being caught in the wrong, you took the easy way out. You were a coward, Peter, not some self-sacrificing hero.”  
  
His jaw clenched, “There was too much at risk, Claire. I had to walk away.”  
  
Claire rolled her eyes, “You didn’t walk away, you self-righteous ass. You ran.”  
  
“That’s not what happened!!!”  
  
“That’s exactly what happened!! You left me, Peter. When everything was crashing down around us, you couldn’t even stick around. One minute you could claim you loved me, that you’d do anything to be with me, and the next you were hopping the next plane to God knows where.   
  
And what about our breakup last Christmas, or when you went to Chicago? It’s always you, Peter. It’s always you that pulls away and abandons me when I need you the most!!!!”  
  
Peter’s face softened and he reached out to her, his heart in his eyes, “Claire…”  
  
Claire slapped his hands away, “Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me again. Why would you want to anyway? I make you feel cold, and dirty. I make you feel dead inside. Isn’t that what you said in Rome?”  
  
“That’s not what I meant.”  
  
“But you said it anyway.”  
  
Peter released a heavy sigh, burying his face in his hands as he managed to choke out, “I never wanted to hurt you. I only wanted to protect you. I couldn’t let you ruin your life for me…the family…”  
  
“The family. In case you haven’t noticed, it’s not much of one anymore.”  
  
“Exactly. It fell apart anyway, and now there’s nothing to hold us here. I want you to come with me now. We don’t have anything to be afraid of anymore.”  
  
“Peter, it’s not that simple.”  
  
“It could be,” he sighed again, wearily raking his hands through his sheered hair, “Y’know, before…I just wanted you happy. Nathan was the only real family you had left and I didn’t want anything to jeopardize that.”  
  
“Maybe. But we both know that wasn’t your first priority,” at his bewildered expression, Claire smiled sadly, “It might not have been conscious, Peter, but Nathan, your mother, Heidi, their opinion meant- means- everything to you. You would have chosen your brother’s approval over me in a heartbeat.”  
  
“That’s not true.” Even to his own ear, his defensive tone was faint, weak in volume.   
  
“I wish it wasn’t, but it is. You probably never even realized you were doing it. It’s been ingrained into you your whole life, Peter. You’ve wanted nothing more than for your family to accept you, and be proud of you. It doesn’t matter how much you love me- Nathan always came first.”  
  
“No…no, Claire…”  
  
“You could make all the promises you wanted, but in the end, they were just words. I was the one who was foolish enough to believe them.”  
  
“Sweetheart, please, you can’t mean that…”  
  
“…I wish I didn’t…”  
  
Peter swallowed hard, blinking away unwanted tears, and he nodded to himself, “I need air.”  
  
Claire’s resolve crumbled to pieces, bit by bit, as she watched him race down the hallway, ignoring the protests of the nurses asking he be more respectful, disappearing onto the stairwell leading to the roof. She blindly backed up a few steps, the back of her knees unexpectedly hitting a chair as she collapsed into it, squeezing her eyes shut to ward off the onslaught of oncoming tears.   
  
A gentle hand brushed her hair away from her face and Claire looked up with a glassy gaze into the compassionate eyes of her stepmother. Heidi smiled sadly, turning a chair to face the younger woman, “Oh, honey.”  
  
Every final defense she may have constructed to face Peter collapsed and fell away as she fell sobbing into Heidi’s arms. The rest of the estranged family- Nathan, Angela and Monty, René still included as he served as a barricade between his employer and her firstborn- had been observing the confrontation with a form of morbid, distant fascination, and now they could only watch as Claire Bennet-Petrelli’s world fell out from under her once again.   
  
And couldn’t help but wonder if she could handle it happening again.   
  
On the hospital roof, swept up in the rapid New York winds, Peter Petrelli collapsed back against the heavy metal door just having slammed shut behind him. Staring helplessly at the cloud-obscured skies above his head, his head fell back bonelessly, unable to fight back the burn of tears.   
  
For the first time in years- long since he was a child- Peter cried: cried hard and long.  
  
++  
  
“So how long have you known?”  
  
The question was spoken softly, catching Peter’s attention from his preoccupation with the mug sitting on the table before him. He raised his eyes to peer up at his to brother- his true brother, blood brother: family.   
  
He smiled tiredly at Isaac, shrugging one shoulder, “About eight hours. You?”  
  
“Depends on how you look at it. Sixteen years…eight years. I knew you existed…I just didn’t know who you were…until the first time we met.”  
  
“How did you know?”  
  
Sipping from his coffee mug, Isaac rose to his feet, rifling through a book on a shelf in his living room, carrying it back the kitchen table and returning to his seat. Opening the volume, he smiled softly at Peter’s surprised expression as he revealed it to be hollow. He placed half-a-dozen photos upon the table, sliding one in particular in front of Peter, “You look just like him, Peter. That’s how I know.”  
  
Awed, Peter slowly placed his fingers against the edge of the picture, and he caught his first glimpse of his natural parents.


	35. Forget Me Not

A little worn with age, the color a bit faded, the photograph before him was still in relative good condition: a frozen moment in time that held the epitome of every question and answer Peter could ask for in this moment.

Angela had told him Vivien and Nico were young when he was born, his father little more than a boy, but some part of him still wasn’t fully expecting to see the fresh, youthful faces smiling warmly at each other, only having eyes for each other.

They were a beautiful couple: Nico’s dark coloring a complimenting contrast the peaches-and-cream complexion and the fair brown hair of his lover. The picture he held depicted them against the backdrop what looked to be a park, bright sunlight filtering down through the branches of a weeping willow tree rendered behind them.

They faced one another, his arms loosely around her waist, her hands resting against the breadth of his shoulders, fingers brushing against the fine hair at the nape of his neck. They stared deeply into each other’s eyes, foreheads pressed together as loving smiles teased their lips.

The picture was only one of six; eager to see more, Peter gently placed the first back against the table, reaching for another. The second was of Nico alone, again in what he could guess was the same park. He was leaning against a tree, one arm hooked in a low-hanging branch as he smiled wryly for the camera.

His eyes were bright, his long, lean body set in a casual pose. He was captured in what seemed to be a moment of true happiness, free of the world that normally burdened down upon his shoulders. It was almost haunting how much they looked alike. Peter swallowed hard against the lump catching in his throat, taking in a shaky breath.

His father.

The third was of Vivien, seated upon in front of a vanity, the dual images of both her self in reality and the reflected image in the mirror providing a strange photogenic effect. It was a moment of quiet serenity and relaxation as she sat and ran a brush through her long hair.

She was softly beautiful in a long, modest nightgown, her gaze warm as they met those of the photographer through the mirror, her lips curved into a small smile tinged with amusement. Peter reverently traced a finger along her form, blinking back the burn of tears that threatened to fall.

His mother.

He moved on to the fourth. This one was once more of Nico and Vivien together, obviously taken when the pair’s attention was elsewhere. They sat upon an arm-chair; Vivien sprawled across Nico’s lap, their heads together, immersed in a book Vivien held.

Peter felt a twitch in his chest, followed by a pang through his heart. It was an eerily familiar scene to the younger Petrelli. He had lost count of how many times he and Claire had sat in the same fashion, Claire’s lithe body resting against his, her warm weight against his lap as she listened to him read. Though she liked the stories well enough, she didn’t quite share his passions for literature. It was more for the sound of his voice, she told him once, that she enjoyed those moments just as much as he.

_He read quietly from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, the words low and soothing as they sat in the amber firelight. Claire laid her head against his shoulder, focusing on the warm sound of his voice and the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed,_

_“_ _If music be the food of love, play on;_  
Give me excess of it that, surfeiting,  
The appetite may sicken and so die.  
That strain again, it had a dying fall.  
O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound  
that breathes upon a bank of violets,  
stealing and giving odour...”

_He trailed off, the prose interrupted with a quiet yawn from the girl in his arms. He laid his head back, gently combing a hand through the golden curls draped over his arm._ _Claire sighed softly, nuzzling absently against his neck, “Hi,” she whispered a little sheepishly, aware she’d been caught half-dozing as he read to her._

_Peter smiled softly, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Hi.”_

_“Sorry.”_

_“Don’t worry about it. Under the circumstances, it’s perfectly logical to be a little worn out. Even with an ability like yours.”_

_Claire smiled and ducked her head, burying her face in the crook of his neck to hide her flushed face in memory of just how they had passed that evening. She was twenty-one, but still she found herself blushing like a virgin at the mention of the intimacy they shared between them. Although, in her defense, she’d only had two sexual encounters before leaving for London- of course, both times were with him- a couple of years apart. Since returning three years later, she and Peter had only been together a handful of times, so it wasn’t as if she was all that experienced._

_At least Peter, sweetie that he was, didn’t seem to mind._

_They’d spent the evening having a quiet date of dinner and dancing, intimate enough for a good time and low-key enough not to draw unwanted attention. On the dance-floor, surrounded by a dozen other of the restaurant patrons, Peter had kissed her for the first time in public. It was as sweet as it was foolhardy._

_Neither found it in themselves to care._

_Later on, they’d made love again and again, always slow and sweet but with passion that knew no bounds, as if they could never get enough of one another. Claire was mortified to feel her face warming once more as she remembered…being given a reunion tour of Peter’s apartment- the shower, the kitchen floor, the dining table, the couch, the rug set before the front door (she was still surprised they even made it inside before they started tearing off clothes the first time around), and of course, the chair they were currently seated in not excluded._

_She shifted, pulling the blanket they were sharing even tighter around them, blatantly aware of the strange sensation of her naked skin against the chair cushion. She huffed out a soft laugh, pressing her mouth to his collarbone. Peter shivered at the contact._

_“We never did make it to the bedroom, did we?”_

_“No, we didn’t.”_

_Claire twisted herself around to face him, straddling his hips as she twined her arms around his neck. Feeling him harden against her leg, she peppered heated kisses against his jaw, whispering into his ear, “Take me to bed, Peter.”_

_Kissing her softly and holding her to him as he rose to his feet, Peter did just that._

“I thought they had our mother’s memory of Nico erased.”

“As far as I know, they did.”

“Then where did you find these?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

++

_One thing Peter was never proud to admit, was the fact that he had jealousy issues._

_He supposed it stemmed more from the fear of losing her than anything else. He was certain that as a boyfriend he was definitely lacking, a forbidden lover kept in the dark…there wasn’t much of normal he could give her. Not to mention the times he just felt old and boring in the presence of the sunny vitality that was his beautiful Claire. No matter how he tried, there was always that little nagging voice in the back of his head, convinced one day his precious sweetheart would be taken away by someone so much better for her than he._

_“So what do you think?”_

_Peter considered the question from his lounging position against his chair, hand resting against his chin in deliberation as he studied her, eyes trailing over every inch that she displayed, from the bottoms of her heels to the slim legs accented by the short skirt, all the way up to her impatient expression and the top of her golden head of hair. Her brow furrowed with annoyance, she glanced at him expectantly. “Well?”_

_“Is it just me…or is the skirt a little short?”_

_It took all his will-power to squander Neanderthal instinct not to let her out the door in something so provocative on her body, no where near the eyes of other men. He clenched his fist and sighed, watching as Claire cocked an eyebrow in his direction._

_He cast her a half-cocked grin, his eyes darkening in a way that should have prophesized his intentions had she not been so preoccupied, irritably fiddling with the hems of the skirt._

_She tossed back her long hair, leveling a dark glare in his direction. “If you’re going to make fun, I’m going to change. You were the one who asked me to model it for you in the first place. It was Niki’s idea anyway. That’s the last time I let her talk me into buying- God forbid- clothes that actually look good on me.”_

_Peter arched an eyebrow as he eyed the ensemble. “You have my agreement there.”_

_She blushed, made a face, and turned away from him with an audible ‘humph’. As she moved to storm passed him, he made a grab for her arms and pulled her back toward him, effectively changing her momentum as she landed sprawled across his lap. He locked his arms and legs around her, trapping her in, and his mouth was suddenly at work, dropping a trail of soft kisses along her neck._

_“P-Peter…”_

_“I never said I didn’t like it,” he rumbled darkly, the dropped octave to his voice sending a pleasant chill down her spine, just as effectively as his continued ministrations as teeth and tongue teasingly grazed over her skin, hitting a particularly sensitive spot just below her collarbone that caused her to gasp and tremble against him._

_“God, Peter! Where’d this come from?”_

_She felt more than saw his lips curl into a smirk against her skin, his hands slipping beneath the hem of her skirt, caressing silken skin. He swallowed her startled moan in a sudden kiss._

_“Who knows? Maybe it’s the skirt.”_

_She twisted in his lap, entwining her arms around his neck as she pressed into him, the sudden sensation of her hips against his tearing a strangled groan from deep in his throat._

_“Pervert.”_

_He grinned, sliding his hands upward as she made quick work of his shirt buttons, reaching for the buckle to his belt. “Yeah, but you love me that way.”_

_“No denying that.”_

_++_

_Later, he slipped the blanket previously thrown over the back of the armchair around her the moment he felt her shivering in the aftermath, enveloping her into his arms as she curled up against him._

_She brushed her hand against the heated skin exposed by his open shirt, resting her head against his chest as he slowly, languorously combed his fingers through her hair, Rin quietly listening to the rampant sound of his thundering heart, yet to still with their exertion._

_His voice, deep with post-juvenescence, reverberated against her ear as he spoke. “So I’ve been thinking about you…”_

_She smiled lightly, leaning her head back to look up at him with a teasing light in her eyes. “Already? A cold shower might be in order.”_

_His eyes warming despite himself, he tried to make a face but ended up smiling all the same, her soft laughter shaking her form as she grinned and leaned up on her knees to peck his cheek. He caught her waist, holding her steadfast as she encircled her arms around his neck for some semblance of balance, watching his eyes shift and darken as they studied her carefully._

_Calloused fingers brushing the hair out of her eyes, weathered lips pressing a chaste kiss to her temple. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered throatily, watching her nose crinkle slightly and her face hid in the crook of his neck._

_“Stop it.”_

_“I know.”_

_He grinned, rubbing his thumbs over her reddening cheeks. Claire swatted his hand away, pouting. God, she was adorable._

_“But I’m serious, you know. You are gorgeous, Claire. I might just have to keep you here.”_

_She arched an eyebrow, tilting her head up to look at him, “Oh? Planning to hide me away in the closet?”_

_“Yep. Stash you away so I’m the only one that can see you.”_

_Claire shifted against him, raising a hand to comb gently through the fine hair at his nape, “Tell me what this is really about.”_

_“I can’t stand the thought of their eyes on you.”_

_Her eyes filled with recognition, “You mean the guys from school?”_

_“Their eyes I can handle. I thought you could to,” she tilted up his chin, thumb stroking the clamped tension of his jaw-line, “I know you. That’s not it.”_

_“Their hands I can break,” choosing to ignore her slight wince at the venom in his voice hinting toward the line between thought and reaction he constantly straddled, “Their eyes…I can’t look at you the way they can.”_

_“I hope you won’t,” she replied wryly, a disgusted shiver crawling down her spine at the memory of the lewd stares she received on a daily basis._

_“That’s not what I meant.”_

_His voice was rougher with a deeper gruff indicating his mounting frustration, and she sighed as she watched his eyes darken, stroking a hand against his furrowed brow, “I’m sorry. Can’t seem to do anything but rile you tonight.”_

_“Why?” A flicker of concern, “Work?”_

_A shake of her head and then an inquisitive, “School? The family?”_

_A blank quiet at the last selection and then a vehement shake of her head, “Forget it. It’s not important. But listen, Peter.”_

_“Okay.”_

_“I get it. You think it doesn’t hurt to see being able to touch others so easily? God, your own brother can kiss you more openly than I can.”_

_Peter winced at the memory, “It was one time, and it was my forehead. He was just happy that I was alive.”_

_“It was still a little creepy.”_

_“I never should have told you about that.”_

_He closed his eyes, resting back against the chair and Peter sighed as she nestled back against him, “We never solve anything with this, do we?”_

_“No,” he mumbled, “We don’t.”_

_Peter nuzzled against her neck, biting lightly into the tender skin, earning a shiver from her. As he spoke, he breathed lightly against the sensitive spot, just a brush of air that spiked her sensuality, “I just want you to be mine. Is that too much?”_

_Claire could never find the heart to reply, that in their world, it went far beyond their control._


	36. Inquiries

"I didn't think you'd be coming again."

"You asked me to."

"Yeah," Isaac shrugged as he moved out of his front doorway to let Peter through, closing the door behind them as they made their way into the studio, "But with our history, I wasn't sure you were gonna show."

"About that…" Peter momentarily hesitated, and then offered the other man a tentative smile, "As long as you're with me to be for it, I'd like to start over. I haven't got a lot of family left, Isaac. I don't want to lose another."

Isaac studied him for a prolonged moment, seemingly searching for something only he knew, and then offered Peter a small smile. "Okay. One step at a time."

"Agreed."

Isaac nodded, and both men took a seat worse-for-wear sofa, one that had clearly seen better days. On the coffee table before them were the photographs from the previous day, a collection of papers, and the open lock-box that everything had originated from. Without the hesitant preamble of the day before, Peter once more reached for the photographs, slowly thumbing through them.

The fifth picture out of the six was a formal family photo, Vivien and Nico seated side-by-side; there was obviously time and energy placed in their preparation, his mother simple but elegant in a sapphire-blue dress that drew out the brilliant hues of her eyes, russet hair delicately curled. Nico's youthful profile was freshly shaven and warmly smiling, dark hair cleanly-cut and the habitual wrinkles and paint splattered patterns that frequented his clothing absent into the fresh linen white of his dress shirt, contrasting nicely to his bronzed skin. Isaac was seated upon his lap; brown eyes softly warm with amity and enjoyment of the moment, cutting a primed impression in corduroy trousers and a small, forest green button-down, chocolate-brown hair falling in long, thick curls.

What caught Peter's attention that most, however, was the soft, slight swell to Vivien’s stomach, only truly visible to those looking for it, subtle evidence of the child she carried.

Irritably blinking away unwanted tears, he took in an unsteady breath and cast his eyes toward the sixth and final depiction. This was much more straightforward in his understanding than the others, obvious and wrenching in its obviousness.

A hospital nursery: a young newborn peacefully sleeping, midnight black hair dotting his crown, sex obvious in the blue jumper he was snuggled into.

Baby Niccolo.

"That's me?" Peter's voice came out as little more than a croak, as Isaac looked up at him with sympathy and shared understanding.

"Yeah, that's you. That's my baby brother."

He reached across the table, seeking Peter’s. Peter reciprocated, clutching tightly at the other's hand with a hard squeeze before releasing, giving Isaac a grateful smile. "Where did you find all this?"

"After Mom died, the insurance company gave me a letter regarding some lockbox being stored, under the name Vivien Rossi. They gave me a key, and this is what I found. This is how I knew. And meeting you…it was like looking at her lover back from the dead."

Peter nodded numbly, looking up toward his brother with a weary gaze, only slightly more alert as his expression turned questioning. "What else is there?"

"Take a look."

As Peter shuffled through the papers- insurance summaries and various finance statement, others of the like- his face suddenly clouded over with incredulous shock, his fingers freezing as they came across one particular document.

In his hand lay the birth certificate of one Niccolo Carlo Giovanni Rossi, born the 17th of September, 1980; fourteen inches, seven pounds and twelve ounces. Mother: Vivien Annette McCann, father: Niccolo Ercole Angelo Rossi; one existing sibling: Isaac Nicolás Mendez.

He existed. Sweet lord, here it was before him, printed in black and white solidarity that this unknown existence of his was not just some fruitless fantasy. Niccolo Rossi, Jr. and Peter Petrelli were one and the same.

Peter drew in a shuddering breath, momentarily letting his eyes close tiredly. "Where did this come from?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. What do you know about what happened around the time you were born?"

"Not much. Vivien had a rough time delivering me. A few hours after I was born, they drugged her, took me, and sent in Frederique Savalle to take her memories. Everything pertaining to my father and I."

"Savalle?"

"An uncle of the Haitian, René Savalle. They share the power."

"A damn dangerous one at that," Isaac sighed, raking a hand through his scruffy hair, "What happened to Nico?"  


"Dunno exactly. They took him away when our mother was about five months pregnant with me, I think. Angela said he died a couple years later from an overdose."

Isaac gave a derisive snort, shaking his head. "So how did this stuff end up in this box?"

"That's the question. Especially the certificate and the nursery picture. It doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense."

"We're missing pieces to the puzzle. I don't know what else we can do about it."

Peter sighed, taking a glance back down at the certificate in his hand. "Nicolás? You were named for him too?" he inquired.

"I was.”

Peter's lips upturned into a small smile, catching the inflection evident in Isaac's voice, full of wistful affection, "You loved him," was his quiet conclusion.

Isaac shrugged indecisively. "I don't remember him, but I have these faint memories. It's more feeling and thought than sight, and I remember it being warm. I remember these big hands over mine, pressing my fingers into all sorts of bright colors."

"He was teaching you how to paint…"

"I think so. As well as you can teach a two-year-old," he leaned forward, his eyes intent as they locked with Peter's, "There were these times when I was growing up, when I started painting, that Mom would just watch me. She'd get this look in her eyes, and I know something inside her remembered him. Loved him still. Most of all, Peter, I remember that he loved me, and he loved our mother. In the end…that's the most important thing. That's better than anything I ever got from my father."

His heart seeming to thunder in his ears, Peter shook his head in an effort to clear his thoughts. "What was he like?"

"A drunk. An abusive son of a bitch," Isaac swallowed hard against a sudden lump in his throat, "It's his fault she's not here. He was wasted, and he drove them straight into a semi. They both died on impact."

Peter directed his eyes toward the floor. "So what now?"

"I don't know. I really don't know," once more combing his hands through his hair in habitual habit of frustration, Isaac waved a hand over the contents scattered across the coffee table, "This is all rightfully yours, Peter. There're a couple of paintings I've done of her over the years. I want you to have those too."

"Isaac, I couldn't."

"Please. I had eighteen years to know her. You've missed out on a lifetime."

++

It was a serene atmosphere Peter came upon as he stepped out into the hospital's ornate private gardens, immediately taken aback by the well-kept foliage, almost ambrosial on how appealing the sights were to the eye.

It was times like this that Nathan's money really shone through.

"I'm not entirely certain if yours is the face I least or most expected to see."

David Hayden's curious statement hung expectantly in the air as Peter shrugged, stopping beside the older man currently confined to a wheelchair where he sat peacefully beneath the outspread branches of a gnarled oak tree.

"I didn't really know whether I would come or not."

The Linderman heir smiled faintly at the thinly-veiled nonchalance the younger man attempted to display. "There's an old saying, you know: that curiosity killed the cat. But I suppose that doesn't apply to you, my boy, given those spectacular abilities of yours."

Peter looked away, focusing his attention on some far-away sight only he knew. "I don't even know why I'm here."

"I think you do. Perhaps you just don't want to admit it."

Raking a hand through his shorn hair, Peter nodded. "Did you know him?"

“Unfortunately, I'm not that old. I only know of him second-hand. You see, after I was born…your adoptive mother had I sent to London under the guardianship of one of the Company's men who was more loyal to her than to my father."

"Who?"

"Lewis Rains."

Peter's brows rose incredulously, nearly to his forehead in his shock. "Rains? As in Claude?"

"You know of him?"

"He trained me, tried to help me to learn to control my abilities before the explosion."

David nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting, considering Lewis trained your father in quite the same way. Anyway, Lewis was my guardian throughout my childhood and teenage years, up until the time I left for Oxford, and his son, Claude, was my foster-brother. Lewis brought me up under his tutelage to deal with my own power, and as I got older, he relayed stories of Nico Rossi and his love."

As if against his will, Peter found himself enthralled, almost aching with the urge to hear more, to know everything this man seemed to know of the enigma that was his birth father. "Will you tell me, please?"

David's eyes softened in response to the earnest tone in the young half-Italian's voice, motioning him over to the bench nearby. "Of course. Have a seat, lad."

Peter obeyed, sighing to himself as he sat down heavily against the stone bench. "What was he like?"

David looked contemplative, his expression thoughtful as he slowly stroked his chin.

"He was a handsome boy to be sure…a quiet one at that, quite modest and a bit shy. A talented artist; very gifted for one of his age. He was a gentle soul; too tender a heart for the life he tried to lead. You, your mother and your brother were the most important things in the world to him. If nothing else, Niccolo, that's the one thing you should know."

For once, Peter didn't flinch at his birth name; instead, he found himself savoring the sound of it, each syllable his mother had gifted to him, all in honor of his sire. Niccolo. He was Peter, inside and out in every way imaginable, but still…it was a good name, strong and true, one he could truly be proud of.

"Angela…" he began hesitantly, "Angela seemed to hold nothing but contempt for him. She painted him out to be dangerous, wild. Nothing but a loose cannon."

"Somehow I don't think she told you Daniel's betrayal in the end, just what it was that led Nico to lose control."

And Peter sat silently, solemnly, as David told the story behind Nico's driving force to keep Vivien and Isaac safe, the love behind everything, the blossoming, young family that brought about Peter's conception, and ultimately the betrayal from Linderman that brought about Nico's downfall.

Watching the emotions awash across Peter's visage, David found himself struck by a strange form of humility. He was slowly coming to realize the young man before him was a rare type of sincere; an open book, heart-on-his-sleeve sort of individual. It was odd, and strangely humbling, to be in the presence of such a raw, true personality.

He reached out, lightly resting his hand on the empath's shoulder. "He was a good man, Niccolo. A father any son could be proud of. And he loved you; he loved you greatly, sincerely, as much as a heart could possibly be capable."

"I'm glad," he smiled, a warm glow a-light in hazel-brown eyes and David found himself astonished as realization of just what the emotion reflected in the young gaze was. Love; warm, compassionate love for the father he'd never known, but still sought so hard to acknowledge and learn about.

The older man smiled, nodding thoughtfully. "Tell me something."

"Yes?"

"Your power. I understand you're an empath? The type to absorb abilities."

Peter nodded and David looked thoughtful. "Have your powers evolved in any way? As you might know, your father was an empath as well."

Peter cocked his head, curious, "Like me."

"Aye…" David adjusted the position of his wheels, turning himself to fully face the younger man, "His was rather evolved, however. He could quite possibly absorb the very essence of a person. He could…"

"Use their power…have special insight into their lives…sense what they're feeling at specific moments."

For a moment, Peter was sure Hayden's jaw may drop, for he looked more stumped and dumbfounded that Peter had ever expected to see of the clever man. "My boy, you are Nico's son indeed. Inside and out, you are his mirror."

To be Rossi's son was one thing, to be his mirror image was an entirely different matter. Peter wasn't quite sure how to feel about that.

"Mr. Hayden, it's about time for your exam."

A nurse's cheerful voice broke through the contemplative silence between them, both men turning to face the source of the sound, and Peter started at the familiar sight of the pretty young redhead.

"Grace?"

The girl looked equally as startled, and then she favored him with a friendly smile, "Dr. Petrelli. You're an unexpected surprise. I thought you transferred out?"

"I did…family emergency called me back."

Grace nodded, politely declining to pry any further as she cast a warm smile in David's direction and walked over to peruse his chair. "Are you ready to go, Mr. Hayden?"

"David, my dear. And whenever you please, I'm all set."

"Alright then, David," turning his chair toward the entrance leading back to the hospital, Grace spared Peter one last glance, "It was good to see you again, Dr. Petrelli. Take care of yourself."

"The same to you, Grace."

David craned his head around as Grace wheeled him toward the door, calling back to Peter over his shoulder, "Anytime you need to talk again, lad, you know where to find me."

"Of course. Thank you, David."

"Niccolo, son…it was my pleasure."


	37. Almost Here

He dreamed of a life so far different from his own it could be nothing more than a fantasy. And yet he reveled in it, this sweet release from reality, for his own world was full of sin and deceit, cold and lonely as the grave he wasn't even sure he would ever see.   
  
He dreamed of a comfortable life, full of peace and love. He dreamed of a life when his world was free of deception, a world in which he could still hold respect for himself instead of contempt. In his dream, his hands were untainted, unmarred.  
  
He dreamed of a life with his sweetheart by his side, full of smiles and laugher by the day, warm and secure in his arms by night. He dreamed of loving touches and soft smiles, lazy Sunday mornings spent in bed and reluctant intrusion of Mondays that forced him away from her side. He dreamed of first homes and white picket fences, golden bands and wedding bells, his vows of love and her tears of joy, as she told him she carried his child.  
  
He dreamed of a faceless stranger who caused such love inside him before his very birth, of doctor appointments and late night cravings, mood swings and a baby’s gentle kick. He dreamed of first steps and first words, teddy bears and “Daddy I love you”, birthday cakes and trips to the zoo.  
  
He dreamed of growing old and gray without fear, his life as full of contentment and satisfaction as he looked upon the faces of his children and grandchildren with pride. They surrounded him, their faces dark and grim or slick with tears, and he told them not to fret, that he would watch over them and it was time to join his Claire once more, to find again the missing piece of his soul.  
  
The world grew dark, and this paradise he expected drifted further and further away from his grasp, to become the slightest whisper of possibility that dwindled to wistful longing. And sorrow overtook him, for he knew now that this perfect world of his was only just a dream, and impossibility for his reality. But the void began to shift again, taking on color and shape to thrust him into his hapless existence…  
  
++  
  
He was trembling as he awoke.  
  
His face was slick with tears, trailing unchecked over pale skin as more of their counterparts gathered in his eyes. His breath was ragged and uneven, his heart thundering in his chest as he willed his body to calm down.  
  
Once his body began to calm down from the sudden shock of the dream, Peter Petrelli released himself from the bed sheets tangled around his legs, as he raised himself into a sitting position and fought against the familiar pang of disappointment that came upon the discovery that he was alone.  
  
It was a ridiculous feeling in reality, but he could never fully suppress the intense longing that came every time he allowed himself to think of it. To know that after years of being alone, it was still Claire he wanted at his side. Right or wrong be damned.  
  
The room was dark and the heat was overwhelming, an overcompensating thermostat filling the cramped apartment with a stale, stifling air. Peter fumbled for the switch to the small lamp on the bedside table, the sudden illumination that dominated the room startling in his lethargic state. The light filled every inch of the room, banishing away the shadows that had lingered only moments before.  
  
A sudden melancholy swept over him, overpowering in its dejection, a wistful wondering invading his mind that maybe, just maybe, there was a light out there that could banish the shadows inside him as well.  
  
Peter snorted softly, brushing aside the traitorous naiveté of the thoughts as he raised himself to his feet and crossed the room to his wardrobe. He had a light like that once, someone who made him feel hope, even if only for a short time. It was foolish of him, then and now, to rely on her to save him from the darkness.  
  
He was so skilled an actor now; hiding everything behind a mask of complacency he adorned every day. It was his own choices that had led him down this road, impossible to take it back or change the past. He had given up everything, and still his life was stale and unpromising.   
  
It was ironic, really, to think that out of his wish to protect one person so important to him, he ended up losing her all together.   
  
More than Nathan’s respect or his own self-image, Claire meant more to him than any soul ever could. He had been selfish, victim to the confidence all young men were subject to, arrogant in his push to keep on seeing her, even when his lusts and his affections pulled them deeper and deeper into the taboo.  
  
Even to this day, he could not bring himself to fully let her go, as much as he distanced himself, as much as the want to protect her ingrained into every part of him, his love had grown too strong to fully turn away. That familiar longing in his heart, it pulled him back to her again and again.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, a hint of color caught his attention, sticking out vividly in the lackluster tones of dress shirts and blazer jackets that made his wardrobe. His mouth curving into a small, morose smile, outlined with bitterness, he reached out to brush his fingers to the faded brown leather of his old jacket, tucked away in the back of his closet. Reluctantly, he almost pulled his hand away and then thought better of his action- shrugging into the familiar comfort of his favorite coat.  
  
Studying his reflection in the mirror, he realized with a start just how the brown hues of the coat brought attention to his eyes, a fact he wasn’t sure he cared for or not. His eyes were traitorously expressive, and one look into them could betray any deception in his words and expression.   
  
Deception had become as necessary in his life as breathing since the start of his affair with Claire, and it was oddly uncomfortable to shed the armored mantle of his lies after so long. Even Nathan, perceptive, shrewd politician, had taken forever to find the truth of illicit love in his little brother’s eyes.   
  
Claire, he remembered with a small smile, had once told him his eyes were like the mirror to his soul. He was such a contradiction, in every way he could imagine. Who had ever heard of a liar, a sinner, with gentle eyes?  
  
Peter hated. He hated the lies and hurt he seemed to leave in his wake; with every step he ventured. With every breath he took, he compromised not just his own happiness, but that of the lover, and that of his brother. With every word that he had passed his lips in the past seven years, he had put up and let down his precious girl, pulling apart their love and the foundation of his family piece by piece.  
  
Peter Petrelli, Niccolo Rossi, hated himself, and everything he stood for.  
  
He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, irritated by its shortness but grateful for the clean feel of the thick locks to his touch, untainted by the oils he often used to slick it back in his frequent meetings with the hospital board.  
  
A blink of his eyes, and the breach between Seattle and New York was crossed in a split second.  
  
He hated himself even more for the destination firmly in his mind the moment he left the room, making his way onto the empty streets of the city. He loathed himself for the longing that welled up inside once more, desire painful in its intensity as it rivaled with his self-disgust.  
  
Knowing that if he found the amber glow of a light in her window, he would be safe to find some semblance of peace in her arms that night; did nothing to ease his ill feeling. Echoing, disjointed memories of that night’s dream remained with him, fighting to widen the chasm inside that threatened to engulf his very soul.  
  
The sight of the pallid illumination in a familiar third-story window did nothing to appease his guilt.  
  
++  
  
Claire was drowsily lying in her bed, tucked beneath the covers in the warm room flooded with the dimmed glow of her bedside lamp, her attention absorbed by the battered copy of Romeo and Juliet resting delicately in her hands.   
  
She was startled into nearly jumping out of her skin when a sharp rapping echoed through the room, her jaw quick literally dropping at the sight of Peter Petrelli floating outside her window.   
  
She flew out of bed, threw the window at him, and the reprimand she’d planned died on her tongue at the stark, forlorn look filling his heartbroken lies. Despite herself, she let him in, finding him wet and shivering in the autumn rain. It wasn’t until she had him bundled tightly in a bundle of towels and seated in a chair that she dared to question him, tenderly stroking her fingers against his wet cheek to draw his attention to her.   
  
“Peter, what are you doing here?  
  
“I-I saw Isaac today. He had photos and stories about our mother…I even have a birth certificate, Claire,” a pang rang through his lover’s heart as she realized that not all the moisture dampening his face was from the rainfall, fresh tears welling in his eyes as he continued on, “She wanted me, Claire. They both wanted me. They loved me. Why would that bastard destroy something so good? And Angela…all these years she’s played the doting mother…how could she do this to me…to them?”  
  
Claire softly stroked her hand through the shorn locks of his hair, obscurely missing the thick length she’d grown so familiar with. “I wish I had answers for you, Peter.”  
  
“So do I.” Tears continued to fall and Peter furiously wiped at his face, irritated at the show of weakness. Claire gave a quiet sigh, reaching out to gently grasp his hand.   
  
“We’ve been through this already. It’s not weakness for you to give in. C’mon, Peter…just let yourself feel it.”  
  
And he surrendered as a cacophony of sobs softly filtered through the air, his body shaking as he sank into her, Claire clutching his head to her breast and tenderly stroking his hair. “Shh, baby, it’s okay. Just let it out. I’m here.”  
  
Peter suddenly found no shame in the release, focusing on the muted beating of her heart as he calmed. He slowly pulled away, meeting her eyes almost shyly with mortification at his breakdown, but Claire’s smile was reassuring, even if her gaze was mournful.   
  
She whispered to him, regretful, “You shouldn’t have come here.”  
  
“I know. But I need you.”  
  
Claire sighed, nearly inaudible but for the thick emotion underlying in the quiet sound. Her eyes closed with painful resignation and watching her weary expression, Peter opened his mouth to correct his blunder but Claire’s eyes fluttered open, shaking his head as she took his hands and pulled him to his feet.   
  
She met his eyes without hesitation, no trace of trepidation or doubt to be found in her countenance. “It’s alright, baby. I’ll survive, no matter what happens.”  
  
Her thumbs gently caressed the inside of his palms, and she pressed a kiss to the calloused back of a hand. “Make love to me, Peter. It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.”  
  
If he was less the obstinate, proud man he was, he could have wept at the look of understanding compassion in her blue-green eyes, the same breathtaking, serene hue of an ocean. Her slender arms slipped around him, and he allowed himself this indulgence, this salvation as he sank into her embrace, giving himself over to her.  
  
“Claire…”  
  
His coat, he set aside without a second thought; the clothes, he shed as easily and as effortlessly as his inhibitions as he let them fall away, casting them away to unknown destinations. Her hands reached for his and she raised them to his eye level, pressed palm-to-palm, and he reveled in the differences, the rugged, calloused expanse of his leathery skin compared to hers, pale and smile. Their fingers entwined tightly, enlacing in a simple but intimate gesture that warmed his heart.  
  
He felt a rush of heady ecstasy as his lips collided with hers in an awkward but passionate kiss, rocking the very foundation of his world with the sheer power of the contact, and he surrendered so completely, his body and mind as much hers as his heart had always been. The guilt, the fear, the insecurities melted away at her touch, as her hands danced along his back, her touch light and fleeting as a butterfly landing upon his skin.  
  
He trembled under her touch as her fingers traced along his facial scar, soft lips explored his skin. He found his hands were shaking as he clumsily brought them to her shoulders, parting the folds of her silken robe, as he lifted the sheer material of her chemise out of his way and bared her body to his eager eyes.  
  
And as he lifted her into his arms, both of them sinking into the bed and each other’s embrace, he let himself go, let himself imagine what his life could have been, and let love heal him, if only for a short time.  
  
Perhaps, for a short time, they could both let themselves be dreamers.  
  
++  
  
Claire had always liked the rain. Contrary to what others would always say about rainy days, words they would use to describe it- bleak, monotonous, gray, dreary- she had always enjoyed the rainy days.  
  
She enjoyed the coolness the rain brought, the wet, rich smell of earth that always lingered after a spring shower, but most of all, she loved to listen to the sound it made, the rhythmic pounding of the droplets against the roof.  
  
The rain was one of the only ideals she allowed herself to indulge in, simply because she was such a firm believer in the rain as a life-giving force. She liked the way the rain revitalized the life of nature around them, the grass, the flowers, the trees. She imagined the rain had the ability to wash away everything that was wrong or terrible in the world and leave the people fresh and clean and new. It was a childish belief, she knew, but she wished for it anyway.  
  
A warm embrace enveloped her from behind, so easily she was made pleasantly aware of the wiry strength of those arms she knew so well. Slender fingers combed through her hair, another welcomed, familiar sensation.  
  
“What are you doing out here?” he asked her softly, “You’re got to be freezing.”  
  
The grave undertones of worry in his voice caused her to smile, reaching up for his hand, their fingers tightly entwining as she lightly kissed his knuckles. “My blood’s gotten thicker, thank you. You New Yorkers underestimate a Southerner’s ability to adapt.”  
  
“Fair enough.”   
  
Peter pulled her tighter against him, warming her chilled flesh with the heat of his body, and she allowed herself to imagine that things were different, that they were free and not hiding, not running from the inevitable.  
  
The sound of the rain echoed against the tin roofing of the apartment building, and just for a few moments, she was perfectly safe in Peter’s arms, and the rest of the world never had to exist.  
  
At least, that’s the way she wished it could be.  
  
“Peter, we need to talk.”  
  
“I know,” he wearily sighed out his response, moving to release her as she sensed what he took to be her withdrawal. Claire took him by surprise as she grasped at his arms as he began to pull away, desperate to keep him close.   
  
“Don’t…please.”  
  
Equal parts bewildered and relieved, he tightened his arms around her, closing his eyes as he waited for the inevitable.   
  
“I hate to keep repeating myself, but this-“  
  
“Doesn’t change things. I know, Claire.”  
  
“I want you, Peter, but I don’t need you so desperately that I’m willing to keep living like this.”  
  
He nodded against her shoulder as he buried his face into her hair, breathing in the soft scent of her. The blunt truth was better than dancing around the problems between them, he supposed. “What do you need from me?  
  
“I need you to be the man I know you can be. I need to know I can count on you. Until that happens…this is my baby, Peter. If you want to be a dad, you have to prove you can be a father. If it takes you leaving again…if it takes you needing time to find yourself, that’s fine. But until you get your life together, you won’t be a part of his.”  
  
“Okay,” Peter swallowed hard, his heart in his throat, but he did not argue with something he knew was the right thing to do, not matter how much it would sting, “okay.”  
  
Again, he moved to withdraw, and far against her better judgment, something in Claire rebelled. She tried to stop him once more, holding him tightly to her.   
  
“Just a little longer, please? I want to watch the rain a little more.”  
  
When he said nothing, she leaned back her head, nuzzling apologetically against his neck, “I never want to hurt you, Peter. You have to know that.”  
  
“Turnabout is fair play,” he whispered into her hair, “You have to do what you have to.” As he held her with a quiet squeeze, he pulled back with an abrupt release, backing away.   
  
“I love you,” was his parting sentiment, as he took off from the balcony and ascended into the stormy skies.   
  
++  
  
He should have gone home: instead, he haunted like streets of New York like a ghost.   
  
The water was cool against his bare skin- his shirt left somewhere on the floor of Claire’s apartment, raising goose bumps in the chill made by the autumn rain. Rain fell in torrents, in thick, impenetrable sheets that obscured any vision more than a few inches before his eyes. The skies were an endless puzzle of wild patterns of gray and black and cobalt blue, violently changing as the rain pelted down, lightning crashed in the clouds and thunder rumbled prophetically in the distance.  
  
He closed his eyes and threw back his head, the pelting droplets harsh against vulnerable, naked skin as he stood bared in the middle of the storm. Rivulets streamed down his face, plastering his hair against his skull. The tension faded from his body in the wake of the renewing vigor of the storm, as the water washed over him, his anger and pain faded with it. His body finally calmed in the violent aftermath of his emotional rollercoaster the day and night had put him through.   
  
Little time had passed since the visit to the hospital, the other to Isaac, and with a handful of words, had his heart ripped to shreds and shoved back at him, only to be healed over before it broke all over again.  
  
He was haunted by green eyes that had once looked at him with such love and warmth frozen and distant beyond surrender, the cold ice of rejection freezing them against his silent pleas for forgiveness and understanding.  
  
But then, as his rationality began to war with his hurt, he knew deep down it wasn’t purely rejection Claire was giving him: it was a chance for redemption.   
  
“PETER PETRELLI! WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING?!”  
  
Peter slowly turned his head toward the front door of the nearest apartment to see the unexpected face of Samara Connors standing in the entrance, staring at him in horror and puzzled concern. “Peter! Come in here right now!”  
  
His lips, long turned blue in the cold, slowly curled into a mirthless smile, imagining her shock at finding Mount Sinai’s former pediatric protégé half-naked in the middle of a rainstorm. What would the neighbors think?   
  
He turned back toward the house, and began trudging through the yard quickly deepening in water. His jeans were caked in mud from the knees down, the heavy denim fabric formfitting in their soaked state, completely drenched through. When he finally made his way through the door, and Samara shooed him to the elevator, grasping a grocery bag in one arm and keeping a hand on his elbow with the other.   
  
When they reached the sixth floor and she ushered him fussily into her apartment, she surprised him all over again as she threw a towel around his shoulders and another at his head, vigorously drying his hair.  
  
“Sweet lord, Peter. You could make yourself ill doing things like that.”  
  
He blinked at her through the folds of the towel, his face falling into a blank expression, feeling mildly surprised that as she led him to the living room, she did not say a word about the mud he was trailing on the clean carpets. Instead, she hovered like a mother hen.  
  
“What am I going to do with you? You’re going to march yourself to the shower right now and warm yourself up! You could have caught your death out there! I’ll make you some tea when you’re done, and we’ll talk. Honestly, boy! What were you thinking?”  
  
Wordlessly, Peter, unnoticing of the sudden warmth, stared down at his mud-caked feet as she continued to towel him off.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
“Yes, dear?”  
  
“It-It hurts.”  
  
The broken, hoarse quality to his voice must have caught her attention, because she paused in her ministrations and looked at him with a worried gaze. “What hurts?”  
  
“My heart.”  
  
She peered down at him with that same motherly affection she seemed to always radiate, and Peter found himself remembering just why the warm-hearted head nurse had been his favorite. His heart dropped, however, as the maternal care hit a pang of remembrance within him at his lack thereof- both in Angela’s betrayal and the loss of Vivien.   
  
Samara was sure as stone she was seeing the tender man before her truly breaking apart, and she sighed softly to herself, gently brushing back his rain-soaked hair. “I gotta say, hon. That was a mighty fine coincidence to be running to you out there.”   
  
She knew as well as Peter he had no idea where she lived, nor had he ever had reason to ask.   
  
Peter’s lips curled, and he commented wryly. “Maybe it was fate.”  
  
“Could be. Now talk to be, Peter. What going on? Last I heard you were leaving New York to take a job out West.”  
  
“I did. I had some unfinished business here.”  
  
“Ah,” she smiled knowingly, “Does that business have anything to do with that little blonde sweetheart of yours? Claire, right?”  
  
Peter’s head shot up. “How did you know?”  
  
“Honey, everyone in this city knows a Petrelli when they see one. But anyone who’s anyone knows love when they see it too. And I have to admit, if it came to seeing that spark in your eyes that girl gave you, secrets were a necessary evil I couldn’t object to.”  
  
“You knew then.”  
  
“Yes,” she patted his cheek, smiling softly, “now tell old Sam what happened, darlin’.”  
  
“I broke her heart…and she returned the favor.”  
  
“Is that how it went, or is that just your hurt talking?”  
  
“You’re right. I need…I want to be what she needs. I need to be a better man for her. But I don’t know how.”  
  
“The first step to changing yourself, honey, is admitting that you want to. After that, it’s up to you,” Samara rose to her feet, “You’re staying here tonight, no arguments, you hear? I’m not sending you out into that cold. Now, c’mon and get to that shower. I’ll get you some dry clothes. My boy’s still got some things here, and I’m thinking he’s about your heights and size.”  
  
An hour later, comfortable in sweats and an old Yankees t-shirt, Peter sat in the dark upon the couch bed Samara had made up for him. He sipped quietly from the streaming cup of tea in his hands and sighed, nestling deeper into his blanket.   
  
And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he sat there, and just let himself breathe.


	38. Big Girls Don't Cry

Hospitals always made her feel ill-at-ease.   
  
It could have been the time she spent after the infamous wreck that had stolen Brody’s legs, in repayment for what he’d nearly stolen from her. It could have been the memory of waking up in the morgue after the near-rape, her insides staring back at her.  

It could have been a combination of both and so much more, but no matter the origin of the reason, she felt almost nauseous with trepidation as she sat alone in a room at the family clinic- using the family physician was far too traceable, and both she and her baby were still far too vulnerable to risk making the pregnancy news to Nathan or Angela.

Florescent lights shined above her head, reflecting obnoxiously off of pristinely white walls, surrounding her in pallid, stifling monotony. She found herself feeling strangely vulnerable as she sat upon the examination table, goosebumps rising against her skin as the thin paper gown she wore left her susceptible to the chill of the room.

She idly swung her legs, the back of her heels tapping against the metallic surface of the step below, providing the only other sound in the room besides the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the corner. After an hour of waiting alone, she was sure she would be driven mad when the door finally clicked open and the doctor stepped inside, lab coat trailing around her feet as she closed the door behind her.

Dr. Borden, a stout, warm woman in her early fifties characterized by a head of steel-gray hair pulled back into a severe bun and a homely face that broke out into a reassuring smile as her eyes left her clipboard and settled on Claire. Claire returned the gesture to the best of her ability, though the expression came out wan and weak, inadvertently reflecting her ill-ease.

“Hello, again, Claire. Sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”

“It’s fine. I can’t exactly make a break for it garbed up in tissue paper.”

The wisecrack fell flat of her usual humor, but the dry tone drew a small smile from Dr. Borden as the older women drew up a chair to sit beside her, flipping through her notes. “I have your test results back. Knowing you, I’m sure you’d prefer me to cut to the chase, right?”

“Alright, then we’ll start with the most important news. “There are no doubts about it, Claire. You are pregnant.” She paused, her expression grave as she glanced back up at the younger woman. “You’re nearly ten weeks along. It’s a good thing you came in when you did.”

“Ten weeks?”

“You sound surprised.”

“No, I just…what’s the date?”

“March eleventh, dear.”

Claire’s eyes closed wearily, her brain almost reluctantly mentally tallying.

_…Italy…_

Of course.

Irony of all ironies.

“Thank you.”

Dr. Borden smiled kindly, and continued, “There are a lot to discuss, and plenty to consider. I know it’s a great deal to take in-“

Claire held up a hand, shaking her head. “I’ve been suspecting for a while. I’m oddly…calm about the whole thing.”

“That’s good. Rare for someone your age.”

“I guess you could say I’m not exactly average.” Dr. Borden smiled again and studied her charts as Claire continued, “Is it alright to talk about most of this another time? My friend’s waiting for me in the lobby.”

“Soon. I’d like to run an ultrasound first, just to check things out. And don’t forget to stop by the front desk. I’ll write up a prescription for starter pre-natal vitamins, and if you’d like, there’s an obstetrician I’d like to recommend. She’s a good friend of mine, and an excellent doctor. One of the best in her field New York has to offer.”

“I’d like that,” Claire smiled wryly, translating ‘the best New York had to offer’ into the rather obvious, ‘the best money can buy.’ “I’m guessing you didn’t miss the name?”

“No, not quite. The Petrelli name isn’t one taken lightly in this city. But no fear. I’m a firm believer in patient-doctor confidentiality.”

“Thank you.”

“And I see it was your birthday last week? Twenty-four. Congratulations.”

Claire nodded, swallowing hard, “Yeah.”

“But before you go, let’s take a look at that little darling of yours, yes?”

++

“So how did it go?” was Niki’s question the moment they promptly exited the clinic.

Claire huffed out a labored breath, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat. “Fine. I’m definitely pregnant.”

“We knew that already. What else?”

“Everything’s checked out so far. Baby’s doing well. I have my first appointment with my obstetrician next week, as long as I talk to Nathan first. Of course, to get Daddy Warbucks’ help, I’ll have to tell him first.”

“What?”

Catching the surprised note to her friend’s tone, Claire shrugged as they began walking down the busy boulevard. “I know, wonder of all wonders, I haven’t summoned up the courage yet. I can just see it going over so well, his illegitimate daughter telling him straight-forward she’s pregnant with his brother’s lovechild.”

Niki breathed out something resembling a chuckle, “No, not that. You said the baby’s alright? No problems at all? You don’t sound overly concerned.”

“Doctor says there’s no reason to be. I’m young, strong and healthy, why should I as long as I take care of us?”

“…I’m not following here…”

Claire finally glanced up, reading the genuine incredulity in Niki’s expression, finally recognizing the clouded emotion permeating from the older woman as the intense worry it was than the friendly concern she’d taken it as. “Oh, god, I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. No, the baby’s perfectly healthy. We don’t have to worry.”

“That’s a relief. I know you were worried, what with you and Peter.”

“That’s what I was getting to. I’m not worried, because Peter and I aren’t actually blood-related. There aren’t any more risks with the baby than any other pregnancy.”

Niki blinked. “Am I missing something? Why didn’t you tell us? I get the feeling…”

“Everyone would have seen things differently?” at Niki’s questioning nod, Claire shook her head, “We’ve only known about a week. After Simon’s accident, Angela let it slip that Peter was adopted. It doesn’t change much.”

“Really?”

“Nope. Angela’s still disgusted (not that I really care), Heidi’s still sympathetic, my brothers are still oblivious. Nathan still feels betrayed, Peter’s still guilty and everyone’s still absolutely sure we’re not supposed to be together.”

“And you?”

“Me…I’m still pregnant, still mad, and just…tired.”

An arm slipped around her shoulders, sympathetically squeezing. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“Me too.”

“So what’s your status with Peter?”

“Ugh,” Claire sighed, leaning against the mother-figure’s side as Niki flagged down a cab, and as they settled comfortably into the seat, the younger blonde proceeded to fill her friend in on everything that had taken place between her and Peter since his first arrival back in New York.

“Back to square one. If there’s a point farther back than square one, I’m pretty sure we hit it. I feel like pounding my head into the wall, Niki. I was so sure I was making the decision the last time he was here, but I swear…it hurts so much to think about him, and then I start second-guessing myself all over again. It’s a mess.”

She lifted her head from Niki’s shoulder, “I was such a bitch to him. Do you think I was too hard on him? God, maybe I’ve pushed him away for good this time.”

“Tell me something. On a scale from one to ten, how much did it hurt to say all that to your boy?”

“Honestly? It felt like I was ripping my own heart from my chest.”

“There’s your answer.”

“Still…”

Niki sighed, “My opinion? You did what you thought you had to. Don’t get me wrong, Peter’s a great guy, but I think he’s the type to need a swift kick in the ass to really assert themselves and go for what they want. And it’s plain as day he wants you.

On the other hand, you were pretty hurt yourself. It does sound like he was truly ready to start trying, hon, but I think it was better you called him on his past bullshit than let back in right away. That took guts. If it was me facing D.L. in a situation like yours, I would have caved in no time. Lashing out against him just makes you human, Claire.”

“Some of the things I’ve said to him lately…”

“Again. Lashing out. I’m not saying your pushing him away has completely pure intentions.”

“True.”

Niki leaned her head against the younger’s girls, smiling gently, “See? You can’t spend all your time beating yourself up. Its okay to miss him, to feel a little guilty and to hurt a bit, but you gotta remember the important stuff. Number one priority currently residing in your womb.”

“Duly noted.”

“Why don’t you let me treat you to lunch? You look like you could use it.”

“Baby and I both appreciate your outlook. He’s probably as hungry as I am.”

Niki nodded. “So what now?”

Claire cringed, glancing woefully at her friend, “Telling Nathan.”

“Yikes.”

++

He remembered reading-somewhere, someplace he couldn’t quite pinpoint- about an old style of tavern called a hell, normally noted as places of hang out for the dirty and the riffraff. Upon looking at his surroundings, he decided such a description well-described the place his feet had carried him to.

Run-down, dimly lit, the bar was not a place he would frequent on a normal occasion, but when the moment he had walked out the door, his first and foremost priority had been to put as much distance between himself and his apartment as humanly possible. So here he found himself, looking through the fog of hazy smoke to try and spot a free stool at the bar.

The drinks were a familiar feeling, going down smooth but burning, the amber liquid translucent in the pallid glow of the neon lights on the wall, the clink of ice against the glass a sign for him to raise his finger to the bartender for another round. His body felt heavier, languid, and a hazy feeling clouded his perception. Still, he drank.

His nostrils filling with the sickly sweet scent of a heavy floral perfume was his first warning a split second before he felt the sudden proximity of an individual, suddenly hanging off his arm and pressing against his side gave definition to a clearly female body. He lazily opened one eye to investigate.

Around his age, he supposed, as much as he could tell beneath the makeup, reasonably pretty. She smiled at him, and he was sure it would be a very nice smile if not so leering and suggestive.

“Hey, handsome,” she cooed, her voice low and sultry, “Buy me a drink.”

He was silent for a moment, and then nonchalantly but gently pulled his arm back, downing what remained of his drink in a single gulp. The alcohol was fiery all the way down, and his stomach lunged, but he was steady as he rose to his feet and shrugged into his leather coat.

“Sorry,” he said smoothly as he threw a few wrinkled dollars on the rough surface of the bar, “Not interested.”

The unknown woman stared at him for a moment, and then shrugged, not looking the least bit offended as she sauntered away to find her next victim. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his brow furrowing with disconcertion as he sighed and stepped out the back door out onto the streets.

A rush of the frigid autumn air hit him and he drew the coat tighter around himself, squinting against the sudden glare of a streetlamp as he tried to vain to spot a familiar landmark or make sense of his memories of walking there, muddled and dimmed.

He huffed, the rushing expanse of released breath creating a white, wispy cloud in the air that quickly dissipated into the cold. He felt oddly numb, absently reaching up to into his left pocket, finding it empty.

The pocket watch. He’d left it behind.

Drinking away his sorrows had become a prominent theme in his life over the last eight years. Funny, before Claire, he had never been much of a drinker, but he found himself looking for anything and everything that could numb away the pain caused by that beautiful girl who twisted and turned his heart every which way.

A vibration in his pocket dragged him away from his reflections. He kept walking, flipping open his cell without checking the caller id.

“’Lo?”

“Peter.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you alright? You sound exhausted.”

“I’m fine, Sam.”

“Hmm-mm. You said you’d still be in the city tonight. Are you?”

“Yeah…I’m…” he trailed off, making a face she could not see, “I went to see my nephew this afternoon before he was released. I’m just going to crash at a motel or something.”

Sigh, “Get your tail over here, boy, or I’ll drag you myself.”

Peter did as he was told.

Samara was waiting for him in the foyer of the townhouse, clucking her tongue with disapproval as she smelled the alcohol on him, slipping off his jacket. “I’ve got some food in the kitchen, honey. I’ll warm it up for you.”

Again, Peter obediently followed and as Samara went through the motions of fixing him a plate of chicken dumplings, he sat idly tracing nonsensical patterns over the tabletop, his attention only caught by an unexpected announcement.

“So I’m starting my retirement next week. Gonna go stay with my boy up on the coast. Could really use a change of scenery.”

“That’s good. I’m happy for you, Sam.”

She nodded, “So you’ve taken a leave of absence from that hospital in Seattle, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“How do you like the ocean, Dr. Petrelli?”

Peter smiled.

++

“YOU’RE WHAT!!!!!???!!!”

Yep, that was pretty much how Nathan’s reaction had gone.

It had taken awhile to calm him down, and even then, he was incredibly awkward for the rest of the conversation. He had agreed to lent Claire the financial support she needed, uncomfortably listened to a very abridged version of how things had gone down between his brother and daughter, and then gave Claire the obligatory “I’m here if you need me” speech.

Of course, by now, Claire knew him well enough to know that although she could have his money, he really didn’t want to give much else. And with the circumstances, Claire could more than respect that.

She’d gotten a couple of phone calls from Heidi over the past few months, checking up on her, but though she knew her stepmother meant well, she also knew there was a distance in understanding that just couldn’t quite be crossed.

It was through her friends that Claire drew the most support, the comfort and the strength she needed as her body swelled and grew with child, landing her swiftly in her sixth month with nary the blink of an eye. And it just that that had Claire in the busy newsroom at the Times that afternoon, regretfully cleaning out her desk.

“Claire…”

“Cheyenne.” At the returned sound of her name, Claire’s co-worker frowned, glancing down at the box Claire was currently packing.

“So you’re really leaving?”

Claire smiled sadly, “Yeah, I am.”

Cheyenne leaned against the desk, regarding the other with a woeful sigh, “How come? It’s one thing to take maternity leave, but leaving for good? It’s really going to suck here without you.”

“It’s just the right thing to do,” as she picked up a frame that once sat in the corner, a group snapshot of her beloved little group of misfits, her thumb traced slowly over Peter’s familiar form, “I have to get out of this city.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s time to go.”

The other woman nodded regretfully, brightening a bit as she handed Claire a newspaper, “Don’t tell anyone I gave you this since it hasn’t officially been released, but I thought you should have it. Arts and Entertainment are supposed to make us small fries, but you, my dear, made second page of tomorrow’s edition.”

Claire smiled softly, consequently flipping through to the ascribed page. She carefully read over her own words featured there in beautiful black-and-white newsprint. Ironically enough, it was over a Shakespearean company that had hit the city the previous weekend. The group was phenomenally well-known, and though ticket prices went through the roof, the paper had chosen Claire for the feature, accompanied by front-row seats to the most-well-performed Romeo and Juliet she had ever imagined.

++

_“Journalism?”_

_Peter’s words echoed through the comfortable silence enveloping their shared bedroom, the softly spoken tones laced with inquiry easily reaching the ears of the woman beside him. Submerged in the lazy, languid atmosphere that came with the warm Sunday morning, both lovers lay stretched out on the bed, side by side, indulging in the warmth of the afternoon sunlight pooling through the room’s twin windows. “Hmm-mm. You were the one that was always encouraging me to write more, remember?_

_“Yeah, that’s true…”_

_A single green eye opened to regard the man beside her as she craned her neck back, stretching her arms out above her head, body arching. Peter watched her speculatively and then mimicked the motion, immediately grateful for the relief of bodily tension._

_Claire opened both eyes to discreetly watch the rather sensual display, momentarily distracted by the rippling of powerful muscles through her lover’s body; faded blue jeans, the only item of clothing he wore in the spring warmth, falling rakishly low on slender hips. Tension relieved from his muscles, Peter allowed himself to fall bonelessly back against the bed, sighing softly. “You know, love, it’s you I blame for influencing me like this. Laziness was never one of my traits.”_

_Claire reached out, tangling her hand through dark brown hair, allowing the silky tresses to slip through her fingers. “There’s no better way to spent a Sunday morning, baby. We’re getting off topic anyway.”_

_Peter nodded his head. “Yeah. Your major…Why journalism?”_

_Claire rolled over until she had nestled against him, their bodies molding together perfectly as she craned back her head to lock eyes with the object of her affections. “It feels right. Does that make any sense?”_

_Thoughtfully catching her hand in his, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles in a light caress, Peter lovingly pressed a kiss to her palm as he marveled over how well said hands fit together. “I understand.”_

_“I’m glad.”_

_He smiled, his eyes closing drowsily as he nuzzled against her hair, only to snap open a moment later with a sudden thought. “Sweetheart, you realize my mother is going to throw a conniption fit, right? Your father too.”_

_Claire made no reply, but the slight upturning of her lips into a smile spoke volumes._

++

Noah Bennet was awoken from a deep sleep by the sound of crying. The shrill screams resounded through the usual nightly silence enveloping his home, originating from only one likely source. He groaned irritably, rubbing a hand over his face in a tired gesture as he swung his legs to the side of the bed and rose.

Pallid moonlight spilled in through the window, illuminating the rousing silhouette on the bed, his slumbering wife, and the squirming infant in the cradle nearby. Noah made his way to the baby’s side, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sandra sat up, bleary-eyed and disoriented, squinting up at him through the darkness.

“Noah?”

“Yes, dear. Don’t worry about it. I got him.”

She sighed softly, nestling back against her cocoon of blankets. “You sure?”

Noah lifted his grandson into his arms and instantly, the baby quieted, sniffling against his shoulder. “Yeah, you’ve been up with him all week. Let me take him.”

“Hmm…”

He chuckled, leaning down to kiss her forehead as he tucked her covers around her shoulders. The baby murmured against his neck, restless, as his grandmother’s breathing evened out into the light, steady rhythm of sleep. He smiled softly, quietly making his way out of the bedroom, padding down the hallway back toward the living room, then to the kitchen.

The baby cradled in one arm, he moved through the familiar motions of preparing a bottle, rocking gently as he hummed softly, losing himself in thought.

Richard Lyle Bennet was his first grandchild, the newest apple to Lyle’s eye. The tyke was a scant three months old but spending a week or two in his grandparents’ care to give him parents a bit of breathing room. Not to mention, that Lyle was finally on leave for the first time since his son’s conception, and as Sandra had put it, Lucy, his young sweetheart, had been missing him something fierce.

A soldier. Noah could still hardly believe that one. And knowing his only son was stationed on the front lines in those bloody civil wars in Africa the news was so fond of featuring eight out of twelve months a year gave Noah another challenge all together.

He checked the temperature of the formula mixture against his skin, shifting the squirming infant at his shoulder as he exited the kitchen and returned to the living room, seating himself in on the couch, pressing the bottle to the child’s mouth.

He really was the sweetest thing, Noah had to admit, a thick thatch of rusty brown hair that curled around ears a little too large for his heart-shaped face, doe brown eyes, dimples when he smiled. And he was generally kind to his grandparents, a normally sound sleeper who rarely cried throughout the night with the exception of occasions like this one.

He looked a lot like his father, though his features were softened greatly by their mother’s influence, delicate for a boy-child, although Noah would like to admit there was a bit of himself in there too. Noah smiled lightly as Richie sucked greedily at the bottle, finishing it off with a loud, slurping sound, and Noah tilted him against his shoulder to burp him.

Noah was drawn back from his reflections by the sound of the child yawning, nestling close against his shoulder. He gently rubbed his back, mimicking what he had seen Sandra do countless times before, murmuring soft, comforting words that relaxed the tiny body in his arms until he heard the slow, easy, rhythmic breathing of sound slumber.

He slumped against the sofa cushions, his jaw unhinging to encompass the large yawn that escaped him, tiredly rubbing his hand over his face. His lids grew heavy, eyes closing of their own accord as he laid back his head.

The thin fog of drowsy sleepiness that held his mind was broken by a sudden noise, the muted reverberation of his cell phone vibrating against the coffee table. Cursing under his breath, he blindly groped around for the offending device, finally feeling it beneath his fingers, and with a muffled groan, he flipped it open, bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded hoarse and thick with sleep.

There was a strange sound of static on the other end of the line, and then nothing but silence, stretching out for several moments until the lack of response grated on his already roughened nerves.

“Hello? Listen, if this is a joke, I’m not in the mood. It’s late, in case you haven’t noticed.”

There was the sound of a hesitating sigh, and then the small, barely audible whisper of, “Daddy?”

For that point on, he would have to swear that at that moment, he felt his heart stop several beats at that single utterance of his name, spoken in a voice that haunted his days and nights, his thoughts and his dreams. “Claire?”

Another breath, a broken, pained sound that pulled at his heartstrings. He swallowed hard, letting his eyes flutter close. “Claire-bear, is that you?” The endearment rolled off his tongue easy and warm, the lingering pain in his heart left by her absence in his life steadily growing to a tangible ache the longer he knew she was there.

“Yeah, Daddy, it’s me.”

And for the first time in nearly a decade, Noah Bennet reveled in the sound of his daughter’s voice.


	39. Legacy I

_“Niccolo…”  
_  
The void was an empty, dark abyss, impenetrable by the force of light.   
  
Constant darkness entirely barren of emotion or feeling, undisturbed by sensation or pain. An endless chasm of nothingness that engulfed him from the inside out, and he welcomed the oblivion with open arms, as a man would embrace a lover.   
  
The void was a place to escape the aching remembrances that lingered in his dreams- a few hours empty, dark and dreamless sleep was only the comfort slumber brought him these days.   
  
_“Niccolo…”  
_  
The call started as something little more audible the a whisper, but then it began to pick up, pricking through his awareness like the invasive entity it was- stealing away the peace of his blank slate, luring him into something different, and real…very, very REAL.   
  
_“Niccolo, Niccolo…Niccolo…”  
_  
A flash of image, of black hair and solemn eyes.   
  
_“Niccolo, son…”_  
  
There was emotion, nearly tangible in their presence…despair, helplessness, sorrow…and love, pure, indivertible love. Warmth, so much warmth. Warm hands reaching out to touch his face. The mouth that curved into a soft, sad smile. Dark eyes, so serious, but gazing at him with love…so much love.  
  
_“My son…my precious son.”  
_  
Father. Father. Father.   
  
“FATHER!!”  
  
++  
  
The night was cold, wrapping around him with icy fingers so similar to the chilling grip of Death he has experienced before. But he was not afraid, for he is a stranger now to the vague entity called Fear. He has lived through too much, seen too much to remember Fear. He was numb to it, haunted only by Memory, walking behind him in his wake, ever shadowing him. He has faced it countless times, and he is never afraid- never afraid to remember.   
  
Who was he kidding- Fear still followed him every step of the way.   
  
The darkness that descended over the sleepy neighborhoods hours before was a velvet black enveloping the night so thickly its presence was almost tangible, almost smothering. A malicious wind swept down the empty boulevard, bending even the mightiest of the trees to its will, scattering fallen leaves and discarded litter is a flurry of movement around his feet, fluttering the edges of the blanket around his shoulders that he pulled tighter around him against the freezing chill.  
  
At the mention of memory, he lets his mind wander- anything to distract him from the matter-at-hand he could not quite get a grasp on. A reminding thought that Claire must be around nine months by now, nearly due to deliver their son into the world. So close…  
  
For a single instant, he allowed himself the slightest surrender, to imagine himself there. With her is where he should be now, if he finally found it in him to accept the place in her life she was offering him, accept that sacred place at her side she had held vacant for so many years, waiting for him.  
  
He could imagine the children that would come from them, to hear the calls of “Daddy”, and know they belonged to him. He could imagine the right to sleep beside her, to hold her in his arms, could be his own. He could imagine that a warm home would be there to greet him at the end of each long day, banishing the cold and loneliness of the outside world.   
  
He could see himself with a daughter as pretty as his Claire, giving all the love and protection he could possibly muster; his son, teaching him the ways of the world and life: children who would be proud to call him their father.   
  
The right to share Claire’s bed, to make love to her at every opportune moment and be humbled each time by the beautiful display of his sweetheart coming into her pleasure. The right to be called her husband, to say I do and vow to love, cherish and protect (he knew obedience was one they could never quite manage- a consequence of that Petrelli stubbornness, something he knew now to be more learned than inherited).   
  
The end of long days when he could come through the doorway to be welcomed by the warmth of home; to toss aside his suitcase, loosen his tie, and hold out his arms for hugs that would be gladly given.   
  
He could imagine, but he could not yet make that a reality.  
  
Claire.   
  
He ruefully shakes his head, sipping from the steaming mug warming his cold hands- cocoa, probably the offender that drew his thoughts so easily to Claire and the baby. He wondered if it ever got even the least bit chilly in Texas (he knew she’d left New York. Molly’s ability had long since become just part of his wide array), and even if it didn’t, if she ever had pregnancy cravings for what had been her favorite hot drink.  
  
Samara made hers homemade, most especially once she found out his love for it. Even Raymond, her thirty-something son, built like a tank and foreman at a nearby construction yard, had confessed his mother’s recipe was a guilty pleasure.   
  
It was Raymond Conners’ residence that Peter was currently calling home. The other man, tough as he seemed, was extremely good-natured, and complete with his wife, their three girls and an energetic collie called Clover, lived in a large, rambling house on the New England coast. The old place had been left to Raymond by his father (an architect, Samara had told him once), and with two floors, three baths and countless bedrooms, Ray’s wife, a petite little thing who went by the nickname of Honey, was fond of declaring she was up to her ears in space she didn’t know what to do with.   
  
It was that declaration they used to rationalize Peter’s continued presence in their residence. In the past two months, he’d repeatedly attempted to rent out a room at the nearby inn, only to have his efforts refuted by either a stern Sam or a reprimanding Honey. It didn’t help matters that the Bill, the innkeeper, mostly found it amusing when Peter grumbled about being cornered about daring to unnecessarily wasting his money when he had a perfectly good room, bath and hot meals to boot all for free.   
  
Eventually, Peter just stopped fighting.   
  
Mulling over the reflections in his head, Peter found himself suddenly solemn, reminded inadvertently of whatever it was that had woken him in the first place. Something was pulling at him, haunting him, something just beyond the edges of his awareness that irked at him with the realization that he couldn’t remember just what it was.   
  
It wasn’t one of those nightmares that had him startled awake in a cold sweat, it wasn’t one of those wholesomely good dreams that had him smiling as he came back into reality, wasn’t the type of random, humorous occurrences that had him staring at his ceiling after ward and pondering the implications, most definitely wasn’t one of those unconscious fantasies that had him waking with unfulfilled aches.   
  
So it was hard to pinpoint just what kind of dream it was that had him currently awake instead of enjoying the warmth of his bed. Remembrance was fuzzy, images blurred, recollection more defined by sensation than sight. And even then, the feelings weren’t entirely clear.   
  
Peter sighed to himself, returning his attention to his cocoa. Maybe he’d go to the shoreline in the morning to sketch. That always helped to clear his head. For now, he just stayed silent and drank his cocoa in hopes of relaxing enough to catch a few more hours of sleep.   
  
++  
  
In the end, it really wasn’t a connection he could escape: whether he was conscious of it or not.   
  
Somehow, part of him thought the memories would be distant and fuzzy, some ungraspable thing that wouldn’t make much sense given they weren’t entirely his- in fact, the only way they were his was the fact he was experiencing them in second-person. But surprisingly, the memories he’d found himself so raptly entrapped in were startling, vivid, and oh, so clear.   
  
Memories…memories…a childhood in Italy, visiting grandparents in the countryside, playing hide and seek in the maze-like vineyards that made up the Rossi family’s heritage. Escaping the stuffy confines of the church to steal away into the nearby woods to quietly sketch on the back of religious pamphlets, discovering the joys of painting from his uncle Carlo (the only family member to encourage his passion), attending art school.   
  
His first kiss, his first _amante_ ; his power manifesting, coming to New York. Meeting Vivien, witnessing Isaac’s birth and watching him grow, training with Lewis Rains, falling in love for the first time- enjoying the joys of that love enduring and lasting.   
  
Watching his powers slowly spiral out of control, killing for the first time. Realizing Daniel’s manipulation, chilled by his own role in Derek Hawkins’ death. Storming Linderman’s office, being brought down. Waking up strapped down, surrounding by white-washed, pallid walls. His wrists raw-red and bleeding from struggling against his restraints. Needles in his skin, foggy, dim awareness belonging to one heavily sedated.   
  
Being told his love and sons were dead and buried. His screaming, howling grief. An escape attempt- dangerous, far from being thought out. Riding the borders of edged desperation, taking a leap from the fourth floor window.  
  
_HELP ME_ …suddenly, part of his awareness was once more his own, and he knew who it was he was watching. _Nico Rossi….Nico…Nico…Father!!_  
  
The moment he watched Nico’s hit the ground, his body gone limp and still, Peter’s heart and body froze. The world seemed to move in slow motion, every ragged breath, twitch of muscle, the thundering of his heart slowed to the point of nearly nonexistence.  
  
His mind was sluggish, lethargic, struggling to form a single coherent thread of thought through the shock induced haze. Thought and feeling fought to banish the numbness, to penetrate the ice that surrounded him. He was so cold. Everything had gone so cold.  
  
“N-no…” A single word fell from his lips as feeling came back to him, his body trembling in the aftershock. The broken voice reaching his ears hardly resembled his own, and yet he knew he had been the one to speak, his desperate attempt to deny what was so blatantly real before him.  
  
_No. No…no…no. No, no, NO!  
  
Father!  
_  
Except that there was no pulse in his father’s neck, no steady beating of a heart in his chest, no breath gently exhaling from bloodied lips.  
  
The flashing lights and the whirling siren of an ambulance. Forced resusication when all he really wanted was to fade away; a shattered spine, and the rest of his years- depending on how long they chose to hold him at their mercy before doing away with him- confined to a wheelchair.   
  
The cold, numb nothingness began to melt away; the rush of molten heat that accompanied rage enveloped him in the arms of devastation.  
  
_“My son. Mio figlio.”_  
  
++

Peter Petrelli awoke with a jolt, panting out a startled breath that released in a misty fog in the air in front of him, reminding him just where it was he had fallen asleep. He shook his head, smiling sheepishly to himself for dozing off on the docks of all places, in the middle of winter when it couldn’t be much more than twenty degrees out.   
  
He trembled and shaking hands encountered the sketching pad he’d originally brought outside with him that morning. Upon its pages was a familiar face, aged and a bit lines, the lighter shading to the thick hair an indication of its graying, but still…still, he knew that sleeping visage.   
  
If there was even the slightest chance, Peter Petrelli knew full well what had to be done.


	40. Legacy II

“ _Niccolo. Niccolo.”_

“ _Niccolo, my precious son. Please listen, please come to me. I need to say goodbye.”_

“ _I want –I desperately need- a chance to see your face one last time.”_

“ _Please, Niccolo.”_

Peter awoke weeping, his chest tight and a hoarse sobbing rising up almost involuntarily in his throat. He fell back onto the bed, drawing his knees up to his chest and he drew in several shuddering breaths.

Nico. He had to- HAD TO- find him.

God help him. His father was dying.

++

“ANGELA!!!!!”

Peter’s shout roared through the mansion, shattering the serenity that usually habitually accompanied a Sunday morning. The Petrelli matriarch appeared in the front entryway, staring him down as if he were some kind of wild animal daring to encroach on her family’s territory.

“What business do you have here?”

“Business with you, the kind that’s long passed time it was settled.”

“And what’s that?”

“My father. Where is he?”

"Dead. You know that."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want. I don't care."

Peter looked away, miffed with himself that even after everything he knew she'd done to him, his adopted mother's rejection still stung. “Tell me something, Angela. You faked David’s death- you sent him away. You knew about Claire surviving the fire and you looked out for her all those years. You gave them such good lives, but what about mine? You saved them- why didn’t you save me?”

She sneered, “Why? You were the bastard child of a weak, destructive man and a white-trash slut- why should I have done anything for you? I took you in because I was asked to; nothing more.”

“David and Claire, what made them different?” he paused for a long moment, bitter realization filling his features, “Because they were family to your precious Daniel?”

“Exactly,” her mouth curved into a biting smile, “They were Daniel’s progeny, they deserved to be protected.”

“If they were so important, why send them away? Why hide them from Linderman?”

“They were a threat.”

“To what?”

“Nathan.”

His eyes widened, as even more revelation settled into his already jilted mind, “You chose him. You chose him above the others.”

“Nathan had a destiny to fulfill. He was the progeny Daniel needed. The son he deserved.”

“So you sacrificed everyone else to make my brother into some kind of glorified hero, just because of who his father was?” his lips curled with disgust, “Just like you condemned me.”

“I did what I had to.”

“You disgust me. Tell me where Nico is.”

“What makes you ask about him?”

“He’s alive. I know he is.”

“What makes you so certain?”

With each word, he drew himself closer to her, Angela looking uncharacteristically flustered as she backed away from him.

“You say I’m so like my father. What makes you think I can’t see him, I can’t feel him? I feel him in my head, my heart- my very blood. Telling me he’s gone was the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard. I didn’t understand then.”

“You do now?”

“Yes. I know the kind of man he was, the kind of life he wanted to give me- all good things, all his hopes and dreams. I know how much he loved me. You can’t take that from me anymore.”

Her face paled as he inched even closer. He leaned closer, bringing his lips level with her ear as he hissed both threats and promises.

“I can show you just how much like my father I am And even further. I don’t have his geniality. I’ve had years to be embittered. It hasn’t made me the gentlest of men. Now, for the last time…WHERE IS HE?!!!”

He grabbed her hands and locked them above her head, backing her up against the wall. “Where is he, Angela?!”

He saw nothing but venomous, bitter red. He remembered moments when she had softened toward him, something almost affectionate in her eyes when she gazed at him and gave him near-gentle words. But those instances had been sparse and far-in-between, eventually disappearing completely. The more like Nico he became, the more he lost himself in his affair with Claire, the more she came to hate him.

Things began to quake. He heard the shaking of picture frames against the wall, candleholders clattering in their place against the side table. He tightened his hold, squeezing hard at her wrists and Angela would have shocked him in the low whimper of pain she released if he’d not been so lost in his temper.

“Uncle Peter!!”

He vaguely recognized the voice of his younger nephew, young hands wrapping around his forearms as he gently tugged. He tried, but his slender, thirteen-year-old frame was not match for Peter’s full-grown weight and height.

“ _Niccolo…Niccolo, stop. You should know by now that rage is not the answer.”_

Nico’s voice came into his head, filling him with a different kind of warmth that rivaled with the biting cold of his rage. Soothing and soft, it blended and entwined with Monty’s pleas, creating a strange mantra that fought against the edges of his primitiveness.

“Uncle Peter, please stop. I know you’re mad, but you’re going to hurt somebody.”

“ _Mio figlio, please. You must control yourself. Remember it was my downfall. Don’t follow my path.”_

“Uncle Pete! C’mon man, you just need to calm down.”

Simon this time, joining his brother in his efforts to calm their beloved uncle.

“ _That’s it, son. Deep breaths. Calm yourself.”_

Peter did as he was told, taking the time to draw in deep, slow breaths. His hands went limp, falling away from Angela as he took several steps back. Feeling a bit steadier, he turned to his nephews, his visage apologetic. “I’m so sorry, boys.”

Simon gave him a soft smile and Monty reached out to lightly grasp his uncle’s hand. “Its okay, Uncle Pete,” he said quietly, “Its okay.”

Peter quivered, and he painfully closed his eyes against the onslaught of his guilt. He swallowed hard, "I have to get out of here."

He glared once more in Angela’s direction, eyes hard as flint, just as sharp, just as unyielding. “If anything has happened to him,” he drew out every word, stressing each syllable, “I will make you pay.”’

++

And once again, David Hayden showed little surprise when Peter showed up at the doorstep of the penthouse he was temporarily renting. He stood there after David shut the door behind him, his head bowed as he awkwardly fidgeted.

The Englishman’s expression was warmly compassionate, “You’re looking awfully out of sorts, lad. Is there something I can do?”

“I need your help.”

“Of course, my boy. Anything you need.”

“I need to find my father.”

“You mean…his body?”

“No,” Peter took a deep breath, meeting David’s eyes, “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I had a dream about him. I’ve heard him talking to me. I think he’s alive.”

David nodded, reflectively stroking his chin. “I don’t think you’re crazy, Niccolo. I know you house an extremely wide variety of abilities. Honestly, for you to manifest clairvoyant tendencies doesn’t surprise me. It’s only a guess, but it’s probable these dreams, these mental connections, are extensions of Charles’s talents.”

Peter’s head snapped up, “You knew Charles?”

“Well enough. He provided the funding for my univeristy education when I was younger. He was a good man. I actually have information for you regarding him.”

“Hmm?”

“Just a minute.” He made his way into a spare room that served as his office, shuffling through a pile of papers from an open briefcase before he finally came across what he’d been looking for. He brightened as he carried with him the object of his search, handing Peter the file after he reentered the main room.

“What’s this?”

“Take a look.”

Peter obediently opened said file, his eyes skimming over the pages, eyes widening with every word he read. “It was Charles,” he said softly, the conclusion jilting, “He’s the one that left the lockbox for Isaac and I. But…how…”

“I don’t know. Charles Deveaux was a definitive man of mystery. That much we can be sure of.”

Peter nodded absently. “I saw Angela.”

“Did she tell you anything?”

“No, nothing. She fought me on the issue and I nearly lost it. I couldn’t have kept up an interrogation after that, so I got out of there as soon as I could.”

“I see.”

The younger man raked a hand through his hair, his expression anxious. “I need to find him, David.”

David sighed. “I don’t know how much help I can be. As you know, everything that happened to your parents was before my time. But I can do one thing for you- as far as I know, Signor Rossi was held at Clear Lake Mental Institution upstate. He could still be there; if not, perhaps they can give you information about his whereabouts.”

He proceeded to make his way back into his study, “I’ll get you the address.” He paused, turning his head back around to quietly study Peter. “Niccolo, let me ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“Are you prepared to face all this?”

Peter looked indecisive for no more than a split second and then he spoke adamantly, “I’m ready. I’ve waited a lifetime for this. There’s no turning back now.”

++

It was quiet, eerily, stiflingly quiet. The only noises to break the uneasy silence was the occasional soft footsteps in the corridors outside his room, the perpetual bleeping of his heart monitor, the clicking shifts of his ventilator. He could not longer remember how long it had been since his lungs had worked for themselves- then again, his recollection was the most reliable thing these days.

Drugs pumped continuously into his system kept his mind fuzzy and barely conscious, but it was nothing new. They’d been keeping him sedated for nearly thirty years, after all, from the moment they locked him away in this hellish place. In this prison disguised by pristine white walls and the sterile stench of medical wards, he’d rotted out his years.

There was a fine line between reality and fantasy, to be sane or crazed, and for over thirty years he had straddled those lines longer than he could ever measure. Paralysis from the waist down, two near-fatal heart attacks had rendered him an immobile, nearly lifeless human doll.

Footsteps against the tiled floor suddenly caught his attention, and then a slight dip in the mattress. A warm hand covered his, strong fingers gently gripping his own. “Father,” a soft voice whispered.

“Niccolo?” his voice was unrecognizable even to his own ears, his throat rough as sandpaper, hoarsely raw with disuse.

“I’m here, Father. I’m right here.”

Tears filled his eyes, “Niccolo, my son. I’ve been waiting so long for you.”

“I know,” a soft sigh and a touch to his forehead, brushing back a heavy forelock of hair that fell into his eyes, “I’m sorry I took so long to understand.”

“Don’t apologize, mio figlio. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“Yes.” A pause and then a hesitant question. “Father, why won’t you look at me?”

A sad smile, “I wish so badly that I could, son, but these old eyes haven’t seen anything in a long time.”

“…you’re blind…”

“Si.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about. I don’t need to see your face to know you, Niccolo. I’ve seen you in my dreams for years. I saw you grow from that precocious boy to the strong man you are now. So kind, so smart- just like your mother.” He reached out a hand and Peter gently guided it for him, resting it against his cheek. Nico traced his fingers slowly across his son’s features, quietly memorizing.

“I remember so clearly, watching your birth. I wished so badly that I could have been there, hold your mother’s hand, be at her side when she delivered you, when she drew her last breath. But I saw you. You were such a beautiful baby. You are so strong, Niccolo. You have so much life ahead of you. I am so proud of you. I want you to know that.”

Peter kissed his father’s hand, swallowing hard against the threat of tears. “Father…”

“I love you. You need to know that I have always loved you. Tell the same to your brother, please,” a shuddering, hacking breath, “I love you. Goodbye, my precious boy.”

As Nico’s hand went limp in his, when the heart monitor suddenly went flat, all Peter could think of was that his father passed away so peacefully, with a quiet smile of contentment on his face.

++

_My dearest love,_

“ _To cry is to express intensity of emotion. To cry is to release pain. To shed tears is expression of joy or sorrow…bitterness or regret. For those whose eyes have always remained dry, those who left behind childhood tears, they are the ones truly vulnerable of heart, no matter how strong they believe themselves to be.”_

_Tears are not weaknesses. Tears are an expression of strength…the strength of heart…to have the strength of expression, and not to fear one’s own empathy._

_This is something we both know, beloved. If you cry for me, to shed those tears like rain, don’t let it overwhelm you. For my sake, for your own, remember me and let your pain ebb away._

_Forgive me, Vivien, for not being strong enough. To protect you, to love you, to be the partner and father our family needed._

_Please, my love, remember me. Remember me. Feel me with you and know I’m there. I can promise you, I will be there with you. Forever and always, I am yours, and I am with you._

_With all my heart and soul,_

_Your Nicky_

Peter carefully folded the letter, placing it reverently back in the box it had come from. Father had told him he was strong. Perhaps it was time he proved to Nico, and to himself, that he really could live up to that strength.

Closing his eyes as he remembered Father’s words, he embraced that strength, and he let the tears quietly fall.


	41. Should I Stay or Should I Go?

The day she walked through the door to the Bennet household, her mother was the first to greet her. Claire found herself swept up into a bone-crushing hug, trying her hardest both to loosen Sandra’s grip and to soothe her tears. After her sobs had quieted, she still hovered, muttering about bedroom arrangements and making Claire’s favorite foods for dinner, how much she’d missed and how good it was to have her baby girl back home.  
  
Noah stood in the archway to the kitchen, watching his daughter with an unreadable expression. They stared at each other for a long moment and just as Claire opened her mouth to speak, he walked forward to grab her suitcase. He grabbed it, hefted the duffel bag that held the rest of her luggage and started down the hallway toward her old bedroom.   
  
He didn’t say a single word.   
  
++  
  
Peter was quiet, pallid and stricken, pain etched deeply into his features. Isaac watched the younger man stare sightlessly out the window, feeling the same sad weariness settle in to his very bones.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Peter said finally, his voice barely more audible than a whisper, “I should have come to you. I didn’t expect to find him in such bad condition. I wasn’t thinking.”  
  
His voice broke, “He sent his love.”  
  
Isaac joined his little brother at the window and he reached out to grasp the other’s hand. Peter gripped at him desperately and Isaac held on just as tightly, anchoring them both in their grief.   
  
++  
  
Lyle and his family came to visit the next day, and left Claire awed to see her gangly, annoying little brother grown into a handsome, confident man. He’d grown half a foot taller and he swept her up into a strong hug, whispering into her ear how much he had missed her.   
  
His wife, Lucy, was a pretty little thing, greeting Claire with all the warmth of an old, dear friend. Claire took an instant liking to her, not to mention instantly falling in love when they introduced her to nine-month-old Richie. She just about melted when the baby smiled for her, reaching out with chubby arms to be held.   
  
They sat around together in the living room, sipping from glasses of their mother’s iced tea and catching up. No one mentioned the baby’s father, for which Claire was grateful, and when she saw the shadows of the question in her brother’s eyes, she quickly diverted the conversation by mentioning the child was to be a boy.   
  
Lyle laughed, making jokes. How was she going to handle it, he teased, raising a little ruffian instead of the pretty little princess she’d always talked about? Not to mention, he figured that with their sons so close in age, they’d either grow up to be best friends or mortal enemies.   
  
Claire made a face and threw one of Sandra’s specialty oatmeal cookies at his head. Lyle attempted to duck but got hit in the face anyway, letting out an overdramatic whine as he protested about mean sisters.   
  
He turned to his wife with an exaggerated pout and Lucy humored him, soothingly patting his cheek and pressing a kiss to his nose. Lyle gave Claire a smug look, glad to have one ally against the evil that was older siblings. Claire rolled her eyes at the childish display- some things never changed.   
  
And Claire smiled.  
  
It really was good to be home.   
  
++  
  
Three days later, Peter and Isaac buried Nico next to their mother. They might not have had a chance at a life together, but the least their sons could do was give them a forever at each other’s side.   
  
++  
  
Claire settled herself into a relaxed routine. Her mother had taken up a part-time job in town as a receptionist, just for a change of pace. With an empty house, life as a housewife, she said, was rather boring. So Claire spent most of her afternoons alone. She took long, slow walks around the neighborhood, brought back old memories as she exercised old pastimes she shared with her mother- knitting and the occasional baking. She read from Peter’s old copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ so often the pages were even more worn than before.   
  
She once brought up the issue of looking for her own apartment, but Sandra immediately shot down the idea. Even Noah, who had barely spoken four or five words to his daughter since her arrival, had expressed his disapproval. Claire considered fighting her parents on the issue, but ultimately decided an argument would be rather fruitless.   
  
The next weekend, they started converting Lyle’s old bedroom into a nursery.   
  
++  
  
After the funeral, Peter returned to Maine. Samara’s family welcomed him back with open arms, couldn’t help but notice the new burdens that seemed to weigh on his shoulders, the sorrow that lingered his eyes.   
  
He fell into a slow, familiar routine, hoping to deafen the pain. For the most part, the family treated him with the same warmth and kindness they always had, careful not to push. For the most part, they let him be, to quietly work through his grief.   
  
xx

By the time she reached her eighth month, Claire was certain she would be giving birth to an oversized watermelon.   
  
On a pleasantly warm afternoon, she sat in the living room, windows open to let in a nice breeze. Her feet were propped up against the centre table, the soles aching, as she shuffled her way through the boxes her mother had given her containing the baby things once belonging to her and Lyle.   
  
Her curiosity piqued when she came across a slim, leather-bound book. Assuming to find family photos of some kind, she flipped it open, a shock setting in as she realized just what the contents consisted of.   
  
A rustling sound caught her attention and she looked up to find her father standing in the doorway, his eyes settling first on the book in her hands, and then upward to study her expression.   
  
Meeting his gaze for a long moment, she finally inquired, “You kept my articles?”  
  
He crossed the room to sit beside her on the couch, taking the book from her hands to settle it in his own lap, gently tracing his fingers over the pages. “Every single one I could find.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
He looked up at her once more, his expression solemn but his eyes soft. “Just because you were no longer with us, doesn’t mean I ever stopped loving you.”  
  
The emotional side of her mood swings seemed to rear its sentimental side as tears filled her eyes and she reached out to him, “Daddy.”  
  
He drew her to him and she rested her head against his shoulder, reveling in the missed safety and comfort of her father’s embrace. “I’ve missed you so much, Claire-bear.”  
  
“Me too.”  
  
“If you want my opinion, honey, I think you’re going to make a great mother.” He kissed the top of her head. “I am so proud of you, the way you’re handling all of this.”  
  
And as she snuggled into his arms, Claire knew he really meant every word.   
  
++  
  
It was rare for Isaac’s power to overwhelm him, but it did one evening as he sat alone in his darkened bedroom.   
  
When he finally came to, he realized he’d filled nearly half the sketchbook. And each one was of Claire- her smile, relaxed poses as she lay on a couch or lounged in a chair, twirling around in a dance, the sated drowsiness that always characterized her after lovemaking, as she settled back on the sheets and curled up against him.   
  
There was angry poses, those of tears and arguments; her stomach swelling with pregnancy, her small smile as she rested a hand over the bump in her abdomen. Most of all, there were images of her holding a small infant, dark-haired and soft-eyed.   
  
He closed his eyes and settled back against his bed. He conjured up memories of green eyes and golden curls, silken skin and small fingers curling around his. Teasing smiles and pouting lips, sweet kisses and the incredible heat that surrounded him whenever inside her.   
  
He sighed quietly to himself, and let the thoughts guide him peacefully throughout the night.   
  
++  
  
Noah once questioned her on her decision to leave New York. Claire averted her eyes, saying she and Nathan had a falling-out and she really didn’t want to talk about it.   
  
His daughter had never been a good liar.   
  
More time passed, and Noah grew suspicious.   
  
++  
  
From the moment he was born, Claire could tell that her son was going to be a gentle soul.   
  
He was a beautiful baby, with Italian olive skin and the lean, long build of a Petrelli, his hair already a thick thatch on his crown. Though his mouth was fuller and lacking the distinctive crook to the lower lip that had so characterized her lover’s face, his features were so like his father’s. The nose, the cheekbones, the shape of his eyes, all Peter’s.   
  
She lay there against the hospital bed, slumped back with exhaustion. Sweat beaded against her forehead, damp curls falling into her eyes as she closed them, still breathing hard. The nurse settled the newborn into her arms and the young woman’s eyes blurred with tears, gazing down at the tiny miracle Love had created for her.   
  
“Joshua Noah,” she whispered softly, and the first family member’s eyes she met were her father’s. Noah looked adoringly down at his namesake, and he smiled.   
  
++  
  
Peter had a dream that night.   
  
He felt his beloved’s pain, but her fear and her excitement as she went into labor. Happiness flooded over him- he wasn’t sure if it was hers and his- as their baby’s first screams echoed through the room.   
  
“Joshua,” he heard Claire say.   
  
When he finally saw his son’s face for the first time, all he could think was of was this beautiful little being he and Claire had made together.   
  
His chest swelled, and he idly wondered if one’s heart could burst from the sheer weight of emotion.   
  
++  
  
The first time Joshua opened his eyes, Claire half-expected them to be a familiar, golden brown. The clear green gaze staring up at her both saddened and relieved her.   
  
++  
  
Peter began to dream more and more, and often his head filled with visions of beautiful green eyes.   
  
++  
  
Noah had once told her that one instance of a woman being at her most beautiful was in pregnancy, but Claire decided that afterglow thingy everyone talked about could only go so far. Besides, she was small, and Joshua had been so big. So after she was strong enough, she took up running, sometimes joining her father on his habitual early morning jogs, other times setting a more relaxed pace in the later hours.   
  
Almost subconsciously, she established a route that passed by her old high school. Every day she passed Union Wells, remembering- that hallway, the front of the school, the roof.   
  
She couldn’t figure out if she was a sappy sort of nostalgic or just masochistic.   
  
++  
  
A few months passed and Peter began to get back some of his old vigor. He took to running and lifting weights at the local gym, regaining a lot of his color, putting on a bit of the weight and muscle he’d lost in his grieving. He spent the spring volunteering at the Red Cross, spent the summer helping Raymond fix up the both the boathouse and the garage, teaching his youngest how to swing.. Upon occasion, he told stories of his time in Europe, demonstrated some of the recipes he learned in Italy.  
  
He took to filling his days with reading and sketches, taking long walks along the beach no matter the weather, spending most of his time sitting along the shore, staring out into the cold waters of the Atlantic.   
  
With each day, he felt more and more like himself, and it was a joyful feeling.   
  
++  
  
The older Joshua grew, the more like his father he became. He had her eyes, and his thick dark hair had a distinctive curl, but everything else was entirely Peter. Her mother and Lyle, back home after about three months away had never met Peter, therefore having no reason to notice the resemblance their nephew/grandson bore to a man they didn’t know.   
  
But Claire began to suspect that Noah knew something, and the more time that passed, the more his glances began to linger on both her and his grandson.   
  
She knew it was only a matter of time.   
  
++  
  
“David.”  
  
Hayden straightened up from the suitcase he had been packing, turning around to face his young visitor. “Niccolo, good to see you.”  
  
Peter smiled. “The same to you, my friend. You called me, David?”  
  
“Aye. I wanted to talk to you about something.”  
  
“Of course. Shoot.”  
  
“Let’s have a seat then. Would you like some tea?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Soon, David was bustling around the kitchen, and as he went through the preparations needed for the tea, he began to speak. “I wanted to talk to you more about Charles. More specifically, his prophecies.”  
  
“I’m listening.”  
  
“You see, it was Charles’s foresight that influenced much of what has happened over the past few decades. It’s what caused Arthur to be chosen as Angela’s husband, Angela to choose Nathan as Daniel’s heir and legacy.”  
  
“What does that have to do with me?”  
  
Taking a few minutes to finish off the tea, David carried it out into the living room, settling down on the sofa next to Peter. Peter smiled gratefully, accepting the cup, blowing it off in hopes of cooling it off. “You were saying?”  
  
“Yes. There’s was something Charles saw pertaining to you and that pretty lass of yours. You were destined for her, Peter Petrelli. You were born to be her lover, the father of a very special child. Your son, lad.”  
  
He leaned forward, giving the young doctor a smile. “You’ve got a destiny to fulfill, Nicholas. You’ve got a destiny to save the world.”  
  
++  
  
At three months old, Joshua was getting bigger every day. That full head of black hair got thicker, his eyes settled on a rich shade of green, flecked with touches of gold. Rounded features, a bit chubby with a healthy weight, a rosy pallor to his cheeks.   
  
He splashed around in the small tub she was bathing him in, playfully grabbing for the soapy washcloth she was running delicately against his skin. He giggled happily as Claire grinned, tweaking his nose. She kissed his forehead, gently rinsing off the lingering soap.   
  
She lifted him from the tub and wrapped him up in a warm towel, heaving a heavy sigh as the doorbell suddenly rang. Hair pulled back into a messy bun, face flushed, arms soaked and full of squirmed, naked baby boy.   
  
After unlatching the door, she opened her mouth to speak, only to have her jaw drop instead with incredulity as she took in the identity of the visitor.   
  
There, standing on her front porch, was her hero, her lover, the father of her child. Peter Petrelli was standing before her for the first time in nearly eleven months.   
  
She slammed the door in his face.


	42. Feels Like Tonight

_He remembered the first time he thought her pretty, was the first time he saw her in that hallway._

_When she stood across the room and called him her hero, he thought her beautiful. The first time he saw her after a short separation when he returned to Odessa to retrieve her for Nathan, he thought her so gorgeous she made him ache with longing._

_The first time he made love to her, he thought her- he knew her- to be so breathtaking his heart threatened to break._

_His mind abuzz with memories, he could remember the way she held his hand as they ran, and the warmth it caused in him despite the fact they were fighting for their lives; the odd ways his stomach knotted when she smiled at him in that jail cell._

_Entwining his hand through long, golden hair, he kissed her, felt the warmth of her body as she pressed into him, creamy pale skin smooth and silken beneath his fingertips as he touched her._

_He felt her body pinned beneath him in the highest point of ecstasy, felt her trembling in his arms as they lay together in the aftermath, bodies damp with perspiration and heaving with bated breath. He brushed away the long strands of hair clinging to her face, taking in her flushed but wary face. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, and finally her lips, whispering fervently how beautiful she was._

_She looked away from him, shy, denying, shaking her head to refute him. He only smiled and repeated his admission. She whimpered softly and clutched at him as he kissed her, as he made love to her once more, as he called her beautiful again and again._

_He kissed her once more, savoring the sweetness of lips, the sounds of her pleasure, the feel of her nails clawing at his back as he brought her higher and higher still._

_She clung to him as they rode out the last waves of pleasure that came with climax, sliding down bonelessly together against the tangled sheets, sated and exhausted. She pressed a hand to his face and studied him silently, her eyes tracing over every contour of his face, committing to memory amber eyes so dark with passion they were almost opaque in the night. Sweat-soaked hair fell limply against his forehead, his complexion flushed with the exertion of their lovemaking, and she whispered to him, a soft smile playing at her lips._

_“No, Peter. You’re the beautiful one. Everything about you.”_

_He opened his mouth to argue, but she quietly shook her head, pressing a finger to his lips to stop his speech. “But thank you, love. No one’s ever called me beautiful before. Not in a way that would make me believe it.”_

_He teasingly kissed the finger against his mouth, gathering her in his arms and maneuvering them both under the blankets for a good night’s rest. He would lie awake that night, staring blankly at the lackluster ceiling, feeling her head nestled against his shoulder, her breath slow and steady as she slept curled up against him._

_He made a silent promise to himself, to tell this girl as often he could just how beautiful she was. He had always thought her pretty after all, and nothing could dissuade in his mind just how beautiful she was, inside and out._

++

She’d slammed the door on him with pure shock and trepidation at his sudden disappearance. She leaned back against the door, squeezing her eyes shut as she rested a hand over her racing heart.

God help her, he was really here, in flesh and blood, standing on her front porch.

She opened the door.

++

She didn’t meet his eyes, she didn’t soften her stony expression in any way as she ushered him inside, pointing him to the living room as she took Joshua to be toweled off and dressed. She felt the burn of his gaze following her, feeling them lock intently on their son. She was rather proud of herself that her steps didn’t falter.

She kept herself in Joshua’s nursery after a murmured command for him to stay put and for once he actually listened to her. Within the hour, her mother was returning home, unexpectedly with Noah by her side, apparently off of work early.

Noah froze the moment he spotted Peter Petrelli sitting on his living room couch and Claire returned to the room to find both men in a stare-down. She paid them little mind, laden down with a sleepy Joshua, a full travel-bag and the baby’s favorite stuffed dog.

“Mom, I need you to do something for me. Would you mind taking Josh for a night at Lyle’s? And Daddy, would you mind waiting upstairs for a while?”

The unspoken understanding, the underlying tension, brought about a quick compliance and soon enough, it was just the estranged lovers left in the downstairs level.

Not a moment after Noah had finished climbing the stairs, heard the door close behind his wife, when the screaming began.

++

Verbal barbs and profanities, accusations and venomous insults; they filled the air and bombarded his every sense as Claire released over a year of pent-up frustration onto him.

She screamed, cursed, cried.

Crashes of the things she threw at him constantly filled the air.

She slapped him hard enough to break skin, more than once. She leapt at him, sobbed and beat at his chest, and Peter complacently took every moment of the assault.

He said not a word, made no move to fight back or to soothe her. He stood immobile as stone, expression impassive and solemn. Sad, unexpectedly expressive amber eyes watched her every move and Claire found herself wishing he would react. Anger, remorse, fear- anything- anything but what she was seeing in those haunting eyes.

When she finally began to calm, feeling the sting of her tears against her flushed face, he stepped cautiously forward, pressing his lips chastely to her forehead before whispering into her ear, “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m not even asking for a second chance. All I want, Claire, is a place to rest my heart.”

With that, he turned away and began cleaning up the room.

++

That night, Peter was bedded down in the living room. By Friday, he had a job at the local family clinic.

If there was anything Peter had learned over the past year, it was two things: learning from past mistakes, and learning the art of patience.

He could wait.

++

One week.

He broached the topic with Sandra and Noah one afternoon about rooms in town he could rent for an extended amount of time without being charged an arm and a leg. From her place on the floor, playing with Joshua, scoffed, asking him dryly if he was really getting so old that his back could no longer take sleeping on a couch.

His sleeping accommodations didn’t change- aching back or not.

++

Two weeks.

The first time Peter didn’t gently refuse Sandra’s offer to have dinner with the family, she made homemade fried chicken and biscuits that had Peter ravenous just from the smell. He and Claire sat side-by-side at the small table.

When she asked him to pass the salt, their fingers brushed.

She wasn’t the first to pull away.

++

Six weeks.

Sandra had asked him to take a look at the outside hose, in which he discovered a hole in need of patching. He repaired the tear the best he could, finding himself slightly puzzled he turned the water back on and still nothing came through the nozzle. He found the problem a few moments later when he worked his way through a particularly nasty knot twisted through the rubber. Forgetting he still held the hose to his face, he soon had his face drenched with chilly water.

Sitting on the porch watching him, Joshua squealed with laughter, clapping his hands with delight over his father’s entertaining antics. Peter turned around to face his son with a sour expression, only to meet Claire’s amused gaze. She shook her head amusedly, and smiled.

Peter promptly forgot any source of irritation. Not to mention any notice of the still running water soaking his sneakers.

++

Eight weeks.

She sat one evening out on the porch with her father, a comfortable silence between them. He’d brought out hot chocolate courtesy of her mother, indulgently wrapped an arm around her shoulders and sat beside her, just listening to the quiet of the night.

It was around eleven when a curious Peter appeared in the doorway, starting at the sight of the pair. He mumbled a quick apology and moved to leave. Claire stopped him, motioning him into the room. Noah took the cue to leave, giving Peter a long, warning look before he kissed his daughter's cheek and disappeared.

The room was silent once more as Peter slid the door closed behind him, and Claire glanced up at her visitor once more, finding her gaze returned with unabashed interest. She swallowed hard, motioning for him to sit with her. He did so, taking the place vacated by her father. She offered him the other cocoa, and he accepted graciously, pleased to find the liquid cooled enough to drink without preamble.

“Alright,” she articulated softly, a pause in her words punctuated from the drink she took from her own mug, “Peter…” She hesitated, unsure how to continue.

He smiled behind the rim of his cup, one of those tiny, almost indecipherable smiles of his, those that dropped like rain, fleeting and unexpected. “I never thought I’d see the day when you were lost for words.

“Two minutes in my company and already you’re teasing.”

“Of course. But I don’t think you asked me to come to you for banter, Claire.”

She smiled sheepishly. “No, I didn’t.”

He nodded, silently studying her. She was beautiful, dressed in a flowing white nightgown, covered by a silken robe. The cut was modest enough, but the fine, cream-colored fabric rested so nicely against the curves of her body, gently emphasizing the swell of her breasts. Moonlight poured down on them, bathing her in an ethereal light that had her golden hair nearly shimmering, lunar beams playing across beloved, fey features as green eyes looked up at him, glittering in the night.

“Peter, why did you come here?”

“Joshua.”

He leaned forward, smiling softly, “You,” he reached up, brushing a stray curl from her eyes, “Out of need to come back to where I belong.”

He felt her flinch beneath his touch and Peter recoiled, apologetic, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to presume.”

Claire grabbed for his hand, kissing his palm. “You’re not presuming anything wrong, Peter.”

She lifted his arm to wrap around her and she nestled against him.

“Stay with me a while. We need to talk.”

++

“I’m not claiming to be reformed, or a better man. But things changed, Claire, whether I set them in motion or not.  I know what a man should give to those who love him- commitment, love, honor, and I failed at all of them. I told you before that I’m not asking you for some kind of miraculous welcome back into your arms.”

“…how do I know I can trust you again…?”

“I’ll spend as long as it takes to show you I’m worth that trust again. We have forever, you and I, if everything Mohinder’s predicted for us is true. I’m in no hurry.”

She was quiet for several minutes, worrying her bottom lip with contemplation. Eventually, she looked up at him and though she didn’t smile, there was warmth in her eyes he’d only seen in fleeting moments over the last two months.

“One day at a time.”

Claire stood and picked up the empty mugs, bending down to press a kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Peter.”

She was gone before he could respond, and he let his head fall back, musing quietly to himself. He decided it certainly wasn’t just that exquisite exterior that made her so beautiful, but also the golden heart of hers she sheltered just below the surface.

He stared up at the ceiling above him, and failed to keep his lips from curling into a dopey grin of relief.  


	43. Home and Hearth

“A date?”  
  
There was a note of incredulity to her tone that made Peter wince, though a touch of interest did give him a bit of hope. He’d been in Odessa for nearly three months and he and Claire had established a certain comfort level. There were touches of awkwardness between them, but Peter could sense Claire relaxing around him. The more time that passed, the more he felt that perpetual spark between them begin to magnify, the more he began to suspect that part of the tension he sensed was more physical than emotional.  
  
He looked away, shuffling his feet in a way that gave her the impression of an awkward teenager. “Yeah. It’s been a while since we had one of those, don’t you think?” He gave her a sheepish smile. “We’re taking things slow, right? I was thinking we could do something simple, you know, spent some time together.”  
  
“Sure, why not. It sounds fun.”  
  
She smiled at him and crossed the room to face him, dropping a kiss to his cheek in a gesture that was becoming all the more frequent nowadays. She gave him a wink before taking off down the hall toward Joshua’s room.  
  
Peter absentmindedly rubbed a hand to his cheek, his mind half focused on making his date plans, the other half occupied with the memory of the soft, warm lips he was missing so desperately.  
  
++  
  
Peter had somewhat of a streak of bad luck when it came to making plans ahead of time. Nothing he did ever went as planned, or ended up ruined or damaged in some way or form. And so, he remembered to be very careful as he planned his and Claire’s date, meticulously paying attention to every detail until his plans were foolproof. Sandra and Noah had gone out of town overnight, Joshua spending the night with Lyle and his family.  
  
He’d packed up a basket for them, figuring they could have an early dinner in the nearby park-a clean, open arena that while frequented often by local families and children, tended to be fairly empty by late afternoon. He had picked tickets to an outdoor concert that night in Midland, knowing the performers were one of Claire’s favorite bands. Everything seemed perfect.  
  
His anticipation, his jumbled nerves, his boyish excitement, all of it was almost unbearable with the waiting.  
  
The day he planned for their date, it rained.  
  
Claire opened the door to find him on the front stoop, soaked through to the bone despite his jacket, his face downcast, looking more miserable as she had ever seen him.  
  
Finding his petulant expression adorable, Peter was given the impression of a drowned puppy, as she shook her head and smiled. Warning him not to drip too much on the floor, she offered him a towel, watching as he stripped off the wet clothing.  
  
“You know, Peter, we might not be able to go into town, but the family is still gone tonight…”  
  
“Are you sure…?”  
  
She smiled, casting him a coy look. “Yeah. It’s been so long, Peter. Besides, we can never really help ourselves, can we?”  
  
“No, we really can’t.”  
  
She watched as the crestfallen look in his eyes slowly shifted as the realization of a rare night alone finally set in, replaced by a glimmer of mischief that gave her only a second of warning before he suddenly lunged at her. She slipped out of his grasp, and flashed him a teasing smile before racing down the hallway.  
  
As he caught her again, they made their way into the bedroom in a tangle of intertwined limbs and increasingly bare bodies, teasing touches and kisses rained over enticing expanses of skin.  
  
Perhaps the day was not so wasted after all.  
  
++  
  
The scene before her was both wonderfully picturesque and utterly adorable. Peter was sitting in an old recliner her father adored, lounged back with his feet up, sound asleep by the sound of his light snore. Their son was in his lap, snuggled up against his father and held protectively Peter’s arms. Joshua’s head was nestled comfortably upon her lover’s chest, a small smile of content evident on his young face.  
  
Claire had spent the day reconnecting with Zach, home on a visit to his parents. A sense of both flamboyance and humor had been cultivated in her old friend by his time away from home, and she found herself not all that surprised to hear about his boyfriend of five years, waiting for him back in L.A. They’d spent the day perusing through the small shops in Odessa and between clothes, antiques and knickknacks, the casual conversation and musing over old times did a great deal to elevates her spirits.  
  
She’d left Joshua with Peter, feeling father and son could use the bonding time, and she was pleased to see her efforts seemed to have paid off.  
  
She quietly studied her lover, comforted by the look of peace settled over his handsome features. Peter had most definitely changed since they parted his ways all those months ago back in New York. Anyone who’d known him couldn’t deny the changes. There was a new air around him, a strange sense of wisdom and experience, and a profound maturity to him.  
  
With time, he had clued her in to everything that had happened with him over the last year- Isaac, his mother, Nico, Samara’s family, the Petrellis. He mourned the loss of everything Vivien could have been in his life, the years he and Isaac had missed, but most of all, it was Nico’s passing his grief fixated on.  
  
There was an incredible connection between father and son, something that seemed was not severed even by death. Though the pain of his father’s memories had quieted into a wistful remembrance, Claire knew the experience had sobered Peter a great deal. He’d grown quite solemn; he’d always been a thoughtful man, but now his silences were not so much contemplative as they were brooding; his smiles were softer and more enigmatic, no longer those crooked grins she loved so much.  
  
Although he had become the man she always knew he could be, although the new confidence, the new strength of mind and heart was just what he and their family needed, there were parts of him forever lost by everything that had transpired, and Claire found herself mourning the disappearance of that innocence that once shined from him.  
  
Lost in her thoughts, a sudden idea struck her and she made her way down the hall to her bedroom, ruffling through a drawer to retrieve a camera. On her way out, she snatched up a familiar book from her nightstand, returning to the living room. With a fond smile, she snapped several photographs of the sleeping pair and then settled herself on the couch, content to wait for them to awaken.  
  
She flipped open the copy of Romeo and Juliet that had been Peter’s parting gift, removing the picture she kept between the front cover and introduction page. Featured was the family photo Peter had been so enraptured with: pregnant Vivien, Nico and little Isaac together; the other half of the gift Peter had left with his half-brother for her.  
  
His mother was truly beautiful, she mused, and it still amazed her how much her lover looked like his father. There was a great deal of Nico in his grandson as well. Rossi blood ran true, she supposed; they were all such handsome boys.  
  
“Fine-looking family.”  
  
The sound of her father’s voice didn’t startle her as she felt him rest a hand against her shoulder, taking a seat beside her. She gave him a greeting smile before returning her gaze to the picture, nodding her agreement.  
  
“Can I ask you something?”  
  
“Of course, Claire-bear. You know you can ask me anything.”  
  
Claire smiled at that. She really did love that new aspect of their relationship since she had returned home. Nothing but honesty between them now, no matter the circumstance.  
  
“Did you know before he came?”  
  
There was no need for Noah to question of who him was. “I suspected. I didn’t know him very well, but Joshua was born every inch a Petrelli, Claire-bear. It only became more obvious the older he became.”  
  
“…no, not Petrelli…Rossi…he’s every bit a Rossi. Peter’s father deserves that much. Petrelli’s just a name, not a legacy.”  
  
Gazing down at the photograph, the smiling faces and the obvious love between the trio (quartet, really), his eyes softened and he agreement.  
  
“Yes, Claire-bear, I think you’re right.”  
  
++  
  
“Peter.”  
  
“Mr. Bennet.”  
  
The two men quietly greeted each other as Noah arrived home that evening, Peter already standing upon the front porch as he watched, enthralled, as Claire played with Joshua in the front yard. The original objective had been to water Sandra’s flowerbeds, but with the early summer heat, that idea had quickly evolved into something else.  
  
Noah glanced toward the younger man thoughtfully. It was a strange dilemma he found himself in. The name Petrelli instantly raised red flags in a former Company man’s mind; the combination of older man, the forbidden edge to their relationship, and the complicated, hurtful history of his time with Claire had his paternal instincts working overtime. But he was his daughter’s chosen, the man she loved, the father of his grandson.  
  
There was only one decision he could really make.  
  
“Have you ever considered marriage?”  
  
Peter started, his eyes widening with surprise. “I…never thought it was possible. Claire and I are still legally related.”  
  
“You’re related to Claire Elizabeth Petrelli, Peter. Claire Sandra Bennet, on the other hand, is a completely other person.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
Noah gave him a measuring look. “When the Company arranged my adoption of Claire, it wasn’t just a name change, Peter; it was a change of identity. Nathan legally acknowledged his daughter supposedly lost in that fire- not my little girl. Does any of this make sense, Peter?”  
  
Peter smiled. “I’d be marrying your daughter, not my brother’s.”  
  
“Now you’re catching on.”  
  
Peter gave him a lopsided grin, seeing his dreams coming true right before his eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Bennet."  
  
“Son, if you’re going to be marrying my daughter, you might as well call me Noah.”  
  
++  
  
“DADDY!”  
  
Peter Petrelli was startled awake by a shrill and frightened scream that echoed through his home. Fear wrapping around his heart in an icy grip, he fought against the mental fog lingering from sleep to find the source of the sound.  
  
Claire shifted beside him, her reassuring warmth pressing against his side as she reached out to touch his arm. “Calm down, Peter. He was having nightmares the whole time you were gone last week. It’s probably just that.”  
  
He cast her a worried look. “Sweetheart, do you think it’s time we reconsidered moving?”  
  
She sighed, reaching up to brush her fingers along his stubbly cheek. “It might be. I don’t want to take Joshua away from Richie, or Mom and Dad, but Peter, you’re gone every weekend, you commute three hours a day. We need somewhere close to where you could work. I’ve seen what having Lyle gone all the time does to Richie. We can’t deprive Joshua of his father, baby.”  
  
“You’re right. As always.”  
  
“Don’t you forget it.”  
  
As she moved to exit the bed, Peter stopped her. “No, I’ll go. It’s me he’s calling for.” With a sleepy nod, his wife rolled back into her cocoon of blankets, nestling comfortably into the warmth he had left behind. With an amused smile, he brushed a kiss against her forehead and made his way down the dark hallway to his son’s bedroom.  
  
The dim nightlight in the corner caused shapeless shadows to dance across the vibrantly colored walls of the bedroom, casting an insipid glow over the trembling little body curled into a ball on the bed. “Joshua.”  
  
Joshua looked up at him with wide green eyes wet with tears, glistening in the pallid light, the hints of past offenders trailing down his cheeks, his lips trembling as he bit back another sob. His heart pained to see his son so frightened; Peter rushed forward, sweeping the little boy into his arms. He held him protectively in his lap, arms tight around the tiny frame, Joshua burrowing as close as he could get to his father’s reassuring presence.  
  
“Hey, little man, what happened? Why are you crying?”  
  
Joshua shivered in the encasement of his father’s arms, and Peter wrapped the blanket snugly around the small body, smoothing back matted dark curls away from his face. “What is it, Joshua? What was so scary?”  
  
“I- _choke_ -had- _sob_ -a b-bad- _sob_ -dream.”  
  
“What was it about?”  
  
Thin fingers curled almost painfully into the fabric of Peter’s muscle shirt as the child’s face went even paler than before. Peter tightened his hold around his only child, settling the boy’s head on his shoulder, his hands tracing soothing circles across his back. “It’s okay, kiddo, it’s okay, little man. Daddy’s here now. I won’t let anything hurt you. So will you tell me what the bad dream was about?”  
  
“You went away again, Daddy. You-you went away-sob-and I called to you, whole bunches of times. I called your name again and again, but you never looked back at me.” Joshua peered up at the other with his mother’s eyes, his own wide, innocent, and pleading. “Daddy, did I do something bad? Is that why you keep going away?”  
  
Any beating, gunshot or stab-wound, any break or injury, and psychological trauma Peter had ever seen in his time as hero extraordinaire, all of them paled dramatically in comparison to the pain he felt in response to his son’s innocent and frightened question. “Oh, Joshua. You know I only go away because it’s my job, buddy.” He leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on the child’s brow.  
  
“I would never, ever leave you alone. Most definitely not because you did something. You could never do something to make me leave you. I’m your daddy, Joshua. Daddies stick with their boys.”  
  
The young doctor spoke with such uncharacteristic conviction and seriousness that Joshua couldn’t help but giggle. “Do you promise, Daddy?”  
  
With a devilish grin, Peter held out his hand. “Yep. It’s a deal.” Joshua flashed a toothy grin, spaced with the gaps of missing teeth, and returned the handshake, his small hand enveloped by his father’s much larger, rougher palm.  
  
Peter leaned forward until he and his son were nose to nose, causing their vision to become cross-eyed. “That’s a promise between men, alright?”  
  
“Alright!”  
  
Peter’s grin quickly faded, as he suddenly remembered the initial reason for his son’s distress. Living in Odessa with the credentials Peter had in the medical world called for employment in one of the bigger cities, though the consequences resented the position for the time it took him away from his family, but the money was good and needed to support them.  
  
Especially after they decided years ago Claire would stay home with the still preschool-age Joshua, writing by correspondence for an arts and entertainment magazine in Houston. Once a month, she spent the weekend in the city to meet with her editor, but most of all, had time to devote to their budding family.  
  
What he hadn’t realized, however, was how his prolonged absences were affecting their son.  
  
“Hey, buddy, I’ll tell you what. Next week, I’m going to take a nice long vacation, all right? Then you’ll have me at your mercy for the whole time. How does that sound?”  
  
Throwing his arms around his father’s neck in his excitement, Joshua’s small body came into hard contact with the older Petrelli’s solid frame. Giving a chuckle of amusement, Peter reached up to rustle the head of untidy dark curls, holding his son close. “I’ll take that as a yes, then?”  
  
“You bet!”  
  
Peter knew fatherhood had turned him to mush, making him putty in this precious little boy’s hands, but he could never bring himself to care. He was sure the sunshine on Earth itself could never outshine the radiance of his son’s smile.  
  
Unwrapping the clinging arms from around his neck, Peter expertly and effortlessly lifted the small weight from his lap as he rose to his feet, swinging the child down into the bed. As he proceeded to pull the covers over his son, he paused, biting his lip at a sudden thought.  
  
The idea was unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome. Neither he nor Claire was particularly religious, but having been raised in a church, Duo could remember well the prayers once used to put him to sleep. “I got an idea, big guy. I’m gonna teach you something my father taught me.”  
  
Though it had been Vincent Petrelli that instilled a harsh form of Catholicism on him as a child, it was the echoes of Nico’s memories in his mind that brought forward the prayers expressed with warmth and faith.  
  
He sat on the side of the bed, taking the smaller hands in his own, and leaning down to bring them both at eye-level. “Now, I want you to remember this whenever I’m gone, okay? When you’re afraid, just say this prayer, and I’ll be with you. Put your hands like this……”  
  
++  
  
“It’s time to get some sleep, now, little man. Your mom would kill me if she knew how late I kept you up.”  
  
Giving his best effort to hide a yawn, Joshua glanced up at his father thoughtfully. “Mama’s tired,” he informed the elder matter-of-factly.  
  
“That she is, Josh. Carrying a baby does that to mommies. She’ll be tired for a while, I’m afraid. Are you excited about the baby? You’re gonna be a big bro soon.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” he said sleepily, watching his father through half-lidded eyes. “I’m gonna have a ‘lil sister.  
  
Smoothing back dark hair against his forehead, Peter smiled. “Get some rest, son. It’ll be morning soon.”  
  
Just as he was preparing to leave the room, the small voice thick with sleep called out to him once more. “Daddy?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I got a name for my sister.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
Another yawn. “Hope. Mama said that a baby born is worth a world of hope.”  
  
A loving smile touched the lips of the once nurse and dreamer, hero and doctor, husband and father. “Hope is a great name, little man. Go to sleep now.”  
  
“I love you, Daddy.”  
  
“I love you, too, Joshua.”  
  
As he crawled back into the welcoming warmth and comfort of his neglected bed, his wife’s sleeping form instinctually spooned against him. Wrapping his arms to pull her closer, resting his chin atop her head, he silently chanted one last prayer before drifting into a peaceful and dreamless sleep.  
  
Now I lay me down to sleep,   
  
Pray the Lord my soul to keep.  
  
If I die before I wake,  
  
Give the lord my soul to take.   
  
++  
  
“Mmph.”  
  
A muffled groan of frustration sounded from one of the twin bundles sprawled across the bed, the soft noise of protest made in defense of interrupted slumber. Peter pulled the blankets tighter around himself, mumbling under his breath as he nestled closer to his wife’s comfortable warmth. Squeezing his eyes shut against the light spilling in through cracked door, he tried to vain to dismiss the return of conscious thought threatening the comfortable fog of sleep gripping his mind.  
  
Claire shifted beside him, the low murmur of her voice inquiring at the interruption to their sleep. The words were inaudible to Peter’s ears, but nonetheless he admitted defeat as he heaved a heavy sigh and reluctantly forced his eyes open.  
  
In blaring red numbers, as if to mock his exhaustion, the alarm clock on the table beside him read three o’clock in the a.m. Favoring the new irritant with a death glare, he slowly rolled over on his side, intent on facing Claire to find the source of their disturbed slumber. Said disruption came in the form of seven-year-old Joshua, garbed in his fire engine nightclothes, his dark hair tousled from sleep, fingers pressed to his mouth and his eyes wide with an emotion relatively akin to fear.  
  
Peter blinked. Fear? What did the kid have to be afraid of?  
  
Claire faced their son, motioning with her hand for the young boy to come closer. Joshua grudgingly trudged across the carpet toward his mother.  
  
Claire rested a hand on a thin shoulder, gently stroking his arm. “Joshua? What’s wrong? Why are you out of bed?”  
  
Joshua did not answer, refusing to meet his mother’s eyes as he locked his gaze on his feet, awkwardly fiddling with the waistband of his pajama pants, the opposite hand still pressed stubbornly to his mouth.  
  
Claire frowned, reaching out to grip Josh’s fingers, lightly prying them away from the boy’s mouth. Joshua made a sound of protest, but Claire shook her head, leaning closer to examine whatever had caused the child’s distress. Peter found himself frowning in concern as well, spotting the small spots of red staining his son’s fingertips.  
  
Joshua winced, relenting, lowering his eyes in same as his mother examined the bloodstained fingers. “I woust my toof.”  
  
The boy held out his hand, a small white incisor resting in his palm. Peter’s worried expression eased in a reassuring smile, pulling out of the comforter to climb out of the bed, his destination being his and Claire’s shared bathroom.  
  
As he returned with a bundle of tissue in one hand, Claire spared him a grateful look as he handed it to her. With a mother’s gentle touch, she wiped away the thin trail of red around Joshua's mouth, dabbing away the blood on his fingers.  
  
“Mama?”  
  
Claire glanced up from her ministrations, softly smiling at the peculiar quality brought to her son’s speech by the wide gap in his teeth. “Yes, baby?”  
  
“Are you…are you mad?”  
  
“Why would I be mad?”  
  
Joshua shifted his feet against the carpet, glancing up at her hesitantly through the hair falling in his eyes. “Cause I woust my toof. I was afwaid you’d be mad.”  
  
Claire laughed softly, lifting the boy into her arms. Joshua smiled with relief at his mother’s good humor, eyes bright with delight as Claire brought him down on the bed with a profound bounce, stretching out beside him. “I’m not mad, baby. You know what, though?”  
  
“Wha?”  
  
“You lost your first tooth. That means you’re growing up.”  
  
“Weally?”  
  
Peter grinned as he settled down beside them, reaching out to ruffle Joshua’s hair. The child frowned at his indignantly, trying in vain to smooth down his rumpled hair. “No fair, Da-ee!”  
  
Peter smirked, sending a wink over the boy’s head at Claire. “You’re growing up real fast, squirt. I’ll be teaching him to shave in no time, Claire.”  
  
“Da-ee! I’m not dat old.”  
  
“You’re not?”  
  
“No! I’m only seben!”  
  
Peter scratched his chin thoughtfully, heaving a sigh of exaggerated disappointment. “Hear that, sweetheart? He’s only seven.”  
  
“Only seven, huh? Seven-year-old boys should be sleeping this late at night.”  
  
Peter climbed out of bed and playfully flung the boy over his shoulder, one arm securely around the small frame as he moved to exit the room. The last thing Claire heard as the duo disappeared into the dark hallway was the sound of Joshua’s indignant yelp and the protests that followed as the boy tried to reason with the older Petrelli.  
  
“But Da-ee! Id’s early in da morning, not nighttime.”  
  
Claire smiled, shaking her head as she lay back against the sheets to wait for Peter’s return. Seven going on forty was more like it.  
  
++  
  
In the shadows of the dark living room, Peter glanced up at the clock on the mantel as the ending credits to the movie rolled over the television screen. Nudging awake the sleepy-eyed woman curled up nearby, he wrapped his arms around the dozing girl in his lap, watching his son, sandwiched between him and Claire, blink up at him curiously as he rose to his feet, holding their second-born.  
  
“It’s time for bed, It’s already past your bedtime as it is, not to mention your sister’s. Careful not to wake Nathan, alright?”  
  
Joshua yawned, mumbling an agreement not to wake his baby brother as he padded across the floor toward his bedroom.   
  
His daughter, little Rachel Hope, stirred against his chest, mumbling incoherently. As he began his walk down the hall, the sudden movement must have jostled her back to consciousness, as feathery lashes to reveal sleepy brown eyes. “Daddy? Where are we going?”  
  
“It’s bedtime, angel. I’m putting you to bed.”  
  
With a yawn, she nestled back against him. “…Daddy…?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Why do you call me angel?”  
  
Peter smiled. “Because the first time I saw you, you were so tiny in your mama’s arms. You looked so pretty, I thought you were a little angel.”  
  
Rachel giggled as he made his way into her room, turning on the lamp beside the bed. He then balanced her weight in one arm as he pulled back the blankets. “…Daddy…?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Do you think Grandma and Grandpa are proud of me?”  
  
Peter gave his daughter the three-year-old a quizzical look. “What do you mean, honey? You know your grandparents are proud of you. They tell you so all the time.”  
  
“Not those. Grandpa Nico and Grandma Viv.”  
  
“What made you think of them? The angel in the movie?”  
  
“Hmm-mm. Do you think they’re watching me?”  
  
Peter kissed her forehead, watching out of the corner of his eye as his wife appeared in the doorframe, and he smiled a sad smile laced with nostalgia. “I think they’re watching over you all the time, baby girl. And I’m sure they’re very proud of you.”  
  
With a sleepy nod, she nestled back against the pillow, as Peter tucked the covers under her chin. “Good night, angel.”  
  
“Good night. I love you, Daddy, love you, Mama.”  
  
“We love you too, baby.”  
  
As they turned out the light and closed the door, Claire leaned against him as Peter wrapped an arm around her. She nestled into the half-embrace, as her husband rested his head in the crook between her neck and shoulder, breathing in her familiar scent as he wiped away the tears that had crept into his eyes. “They would have been so proud of her, Claire. All of them.”  
  
“I know, love, I know.”


	44. Epilogue I: Genesis

_Seattle, Washington (2049)_

He kept the light dim, sitting before the fire as he watched the flames engage in their wild dance of gold, vermillion, and the occasional crimson. His eyes were dark and solemn as he stared ahead, hazy with the effects of the alcohol he had been consuming for the better part of an hour, evident in the half-empty glass of scotch resting in his hand.

He found himself scowling down at his empty glass. No matter how drunk he might be, it was quite irritating that he still had not managed to drown out the roaring confusion in his head and heart, sweepingly overwhelming.

A pair of warm hands came to rest upon his broad shoulders, surprising him that he’d been too distracted to notice the approach. His voice was soft, at odds with his current stormy mood, as he whispered his wife’s name in some sort of unspoken plea. “Alex…”

“Josh, what are you doing to yourself?”

Joshua Petrelli wearily shook his head, letting himself be coaxed out of his brooding by the slow, gentle massage Alex began upon his back, the tension steadily fading from the muscles beneath her touch.

“Haven’t you learned from all the years Claire spend chiding Peter? You know this isn’t going to do you any good.”

His heart tightened at the mention of his parents. “But unlike him, I don’t absorb everything I put in my body. I can do the one thing he couldn’t- get completely shitfaced.” He turned his face away, staring back into the ebb and flow of the fire. “What does it matter anymore, anyway?”

“It matters a lot, Joshua.” She rested her head against the crook of his neck, reaching up to tenderly run a hand through his curls. “Darling, talk to me. This isn’t like you.”

“And why not? My parents are gone. I just found out they’ve been lying to me for thirty years about a past they couldn’t they couldn’t even admit to.”

“They must have had their reasons.”

“What was the point? They ought to have known none of us would have judged them.” He threw a disdainful look to the box beside his chair, a collection of photos, keepsakes, papers, and more, from their parents’ dubious past, along with a letter from his father that sought to, rather fruitlessly, explain… _everything._

“Joshua…” she sighed, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her cheek against the back of his shoulder. He laid his hands over hers, comfortable in the familiarity of her embrace.

“I know, Lex.”

“Do you want me to call her?”

“Her?”

She sighed, pressing a kiss to his ear. “Rachel.”

He took in a sharp breath, fighting against the strong, familiar ache rising up in his chest. He could feel the tangible weight of distance, hundreds of suddenly unwanted miles. “No,” he replied hoarsely, “I’ll do it. The others as well.”

A few moments passed between them in a thoughtful silence, and then Alexandra quietly asked him. “What will you do now?”

“I think it’s about time we paid a visit to New York. We need to get to the bottom of this once and for all.” And with that, he leaned his head against hers, letting his eyes close. In all his thirty-plus years, he had never felt so damn weary.

++

_Queens, New York_

Michael Mohinder Matthew Sanders, better known to friends and family as Eman, watched with quiet fascination as his _Tata_ moved around his lab with an efficient grace that bespoke decades of experiences and dedication.

Eman had always idolized his _Tata_ Mohinder. In his early sixties, the geneticist was head of “evolved human” research at New York University, but nothing in the world seemed capable of tearing him away from his own scientific pursuits.

Feeling the weight of the boy’s study, Mohinder looked up and regarded Eman curiously, frowning with concern. “Are you certain you’re not bored, my boy? If you’d like, I could take you elsewhere. Perhaps to see Jacob, or Matthew and his family?”

Tempted briefly by the idea of visiting with his uncles, the child thought for a moment, ultimately shaking his head in the negative. “No, I like watching you work. I’m okay.”

Pleasantly surprised, Mohinder gave the boy a fond smile. At eight, Eman was Molly and Micah Sanders’ youngest. Like his father before him, he was a childhood prodigy; of late, beginning to show an avid interest in the sciences, particularly in Mohinder’s area of expertise.

Mohinder couldn’t help but encourage the child. He adored the older two, Derek and Madelyn, on an equal level with Eman, never feeling jealous or put off at sharing the joys of being a grandfather.

Mohinder and good friend, Matt Parkman, had shared legal custody of Molly throughout her childhood, and the little girl had soon come to regard them as her fathers, and her true family as an extension. She had taken Appa Mohinder’s name before becoming Mrs. Sanders, but her Daddy Matt had given her two younger brothers, her children uncles and a second grandfather.

And still, despite his overwhelming love for all of Molly’s children, he couldn’t help himself from developing a particular soft spot in his heart for his young namesake.

“Tata?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s wrong? You seem sad.”

Mohinder stopped his look, taking off his glasses, and seated himself next to his grandson. “There was something I did, years ago, that I’ve come to regret.”

As Eman placed his small hand over his, Mohinder smiled, continuing, “A long time ago, dear boy, a friend made a request to me that I couldn’t refuse. For a while, I thought I had done the right thing, that my decision would keep my friend from feeling unnecessary pain.”

“But instead, it had brought pain to so many other people.”

++

_Queens (2015)_

“Are you certain this is what you want?” Mohinder sat with shock in his chair, as he stammered out his questions, stunned by the request given to him by the man before him.

Peter Petrelli gave him a grim smile and a simple nod. “Claire and I have talked about it and it’s what we want to do, Mohinder.”

“…but you realize what this will do…?”

“Neutralize our powers. I’m aware,” he sighed, running an idle hand through his hair. “The one thing the two of us have wanted for a long time, is to live a normal life. We’ve given up everything to achieve some semblance of that…what’s one more thing?”

“Peter…”

Peter looked up at him with solemn eyes, shadowed with a sadness he couldn’t quite explain, something that seemed to cling to the young man ever since his brief return to the city after the mysterious disappearance no one could explain. “Who would want to live forever, Mohinder?”

“Alright then. I’ll see what I can do.”

Peter gave him a small smile, thinking of innocent green eyes and a little, crooked smile. “Thank you, my friend.”

“After everything that’s happened, Peter, it’s the least I can do.”

++

_Upper Manhattan, Petrelli Mansion (2049)_

Nathan Petrelli was tired.

No…no, that wasn’t the way to put it. To say he was tired was greatly an understatement. Nathan wasn’t tired, not even exhausted- he was utterly, completely weary. Weary of his life, of the past, of the present. He was weary of his own skin, of the person he had become.

Once upon a time, family had been everything. Now, the kinships he once held in such high regard were nothing but shadows of their former selves. Heidi had left him a widower nearly fifteen years prior and he mourned still. Guilt ate away at him remembering the strain his infamous promiscuity had put on their relationship, and he’d known no woman’s bed since her death, chaste as a priest.

Speaking of priests…

A wedge had been driven between him and both his sons, something he had never been able to reconcile. Simon and Monty had long since grown into men in their own right, more than capable of making their own decisions and running their own lives.

But Nathan’s fear, bordering dangerously on paranoia, that his sons would suffer the same fate as their predecessors, had pressured and smothered in regards to his sons’ futures until the younger Petrellis could take no more. Simon, walking the path of a politician, remained him too much of himself and what he had nearly become. Monty, drawn to religion, worried him as he remembered the damage rout by Daniel Linderman’s fanatical ideology.

The damage was done before he even realized he was in the wrong.

Family seemed to come and go. He had never fully forgiven his mother for her deceit and manipulations. What she had suffered a stroke all those years ago and not survived the consequential complications, she had died with the two of them still resenting each other.

And while he had never become close to his half-brother, he and David Hayden had established a comfortable camaraderie between them in the five years the older man spent in New York City. But like all things, his stay had come to an end.

He had taken over the assets belonging to the Company and their biological father, spending the next few years cleaning up what remained of Daniel Linderman’s legacy and transformed the political machine into a humanitarian behemoth. Five years later, he moved his home base back to London, said his goodbyes, and left.

Nathan had lost another brother.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to go down that path. Peter and Claire spurred memories he would rather no deal with. Just as he was losing the internal war with himself, his relief came in the form of his housekeeper knocking on his door, sticking her head into the office.

“Mr. Petrelli, there’s a young woman here to see you.”

“Did she leave her name?”

“No, sir. She just said it was important that she see you.”

That had his brow furrowing with thought and then he shrugged. What the hell? It wasn’t like he got a lot of company these days. “Alright. Send her in.”

Honestly, the woman that came sauntering into his office had not been the charity worker or socialite wife he was expecting. She was young, certainly young enough to be his granddaughter, but still the male in him couldn’t miss the fact that she was very pretty. Blonde and fair with a refined look to her, carrying herself with an air not of vanity but of rather simple confidence.

“What do I own the pleasure of this visit?"

“I’m here on my husband’s behalf. Mr. Petrelli.”

“And who is your husband, Missus…”

The woman gave him a wry smile, strangely amused. “Hmm…Mr. Petrelli, I believe that, as well as my name, is my own business. I’m only here to deliver a message.”

Nathan arched an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

“For once in your life, I think it’s time you took off those narrow blinders you’ve worn all your life. Your family needs you.”

Nathan’s jaw tightened at her audacity. “I believe you’re overstepping your bounds, young lady. Just who do you think you are!?”

“Just a friend. If you want me to be.”

He snorted sardonically. “Let me guess, this is just a bit of friendly advice, correct?”

She shrugged, half-turned to the door when she cocked her head as she seemed to contemplate something. “By the way…”

“What?” he spat out the inquiry, eager to have her away from him, to be away from the strange feeling of trepidation she was giving him.

“Joshua sends his regards.” She flipped a business card onto his desk, watching as he picked it up between shaking fingers, “Maybe you should do the same.”

Studying the card, Nathan paled.

_Dr. Joshua Petrelli._

++

“How did it happen?”

“Car wreck.”

“That shouldn’t be possible.”

There wasn’t much love lost between Joshua and Nathan Petrelli. To Nathan, Joshua knew he himself would always be something to be ashamed of and he couldn’t help but begrudge that fact. For Nathan, it was nearly impossible to break through his own shame when the very evidence of his guilt was present in his city.

Glad he was on the phone instead of appearing before Nathan given the way he proceeded to scoff, Joshua merely replied, “It was Suresh’s cure.”

“But why…”

“They just wanted to be normal. As if that’s possible in this family.”

He listened to Nathan’s disquieted silence, thinking of the twisted family bonds kept secret from him for so long. He gave an embittered, ugly little laugh. “Then again, normal is fairly _relative_ , isn’t it, Grandfather?”


	45. Epilogue II: Kismet

_Chicago, Illinois, Madison’s College of the Arts, Student Housing District_

The steady pulse of the music streaming through the buds in his ears filled his consciousness, his head bobbing to the beat as he worked steadily at his canvas.

It was a gorgeous day, sunlight streaming in through the studio’s vast skylights, filling the room with a pleasant glow and warmth. Paint stained against his clothes and hands in splattered patterns, a smear appearing against his face as he rubbed his cheek. He stepped back, looking thoughtfully at his work.

“Yo, Petrelli.”

He took out the headphones from his ears to turn his head around, facing the owner of the voice. One of his roommates stood grinning in the doorway. “What’s up, Chase?”

Chase gave him a wink. “Just thought I’d give you a head’s up. Heard Maxie is back in town.”

That piqued his interest. “Really?”

“Yeah. You guys talking yet?”

He shrugged. “We’ll get there.”

“When you do, just try to keep it down.” Chase waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

The young artist laughed, elbowing his friend in the ribs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Their conversation was broken then, by the ringing of a nearby cell phone.

Chase was wise enough not to comment when his friend spilled oil paints all over his own shirt and shoes. Instead, he paid the mess little mind as he wrapped his arms around shaking shoulders.

++

_San Francisco, California_

“Girl, where’s my coffee?”

Said girl sighed to herself, blowing a stray lock of blonde hair out of her eyes as she tore herself away from her sketches to fetch the ordered coffee for her demon of an employer. The intern at the next desk over shot a sympathetic look at being subjected to the woman’s poison tongue and the unfortunate victim gave her a grateful smile.

It was a strange thing to break away from the comfort of her rather large family and childhood home when she came to California. Her assorted pack of siblings had all attempted to make her stay in their own way, but she was strong and inevitably feeling overshadowed by her succeeding older siblings.

Her need to be independent and make a name for herself had eventually been recognized, and here she was, years later, graduated with a degree in fashion design and attempting to work her way up through the chain of command.

While starting from the bottom up of the fashion world wasn’t as glamorous as she’d hoped for, she was confident in her abilities and her aspirations to get somewhere someday. She was comfortable with her life and her work, most especially with the constant calls of well-wishes and encouragement she got from her family.

If the worst thing she had to put up with was an overbearing tyrant of a boss, it was worth the sacrifice.

She was just stirring in creamer into the coffee mug when someone gave a shout of “Petrelli, phone!”

As she held the receiver to her ear and greeted the person on the other side, the warmth of recognition quickly grew to confusion, then dread and family, the icy blankness of grieving shock.

The porcelain cup crashed and shattered onto the break room floor.

++

_Portland, Oregon- Lakeside Academy for Gifted Youths_

“Hey.”

Sprawled out on his head, he looked up from his book at the sound of the familiar voice, spotting the smiling girl standing in his doorway. He raised himself into the sitting position, setting down his novel as he motioned her into his room. “Hey yourself.”

He watched her thoughtfully as she slowly wandered around the room, perpetually neat and well-kept as always. A large bookcase took up most of the wall opposite of his bed, and she let her fingers trace over the cover bindings, musing over the titles reflecting his immense love for literature.

“What are you reading?”

He held up the novel for her perusal, and she nodded as she read the title. “You always do have good taste. Could you recommend me something for that essay for Henderson?”

He cocked his head in her direction, “Sure,” his soft smile turned teasing, “Do I need to pull out Hooked on Phonics, or have you moved on from that?”

“Jerk!” She bounded onto the bed, grabbing a pillow to bombard him. He laughed under the assault as she wacked a few good ones, then clutched her wrists to pin her down, wrestling the pillow away from her. She squirmed beneath him, squealing with protest as he dug his fingers into her ribs, tickling her.

“Hey!” giggle, “Hey!!” giggle, squealing, “C’mon, knock it off!”

He relented, his arms braced on either side of them to keep his weight from crushing her, grinning cheekily down at her. She glared, rolling her eyes at the smirk adorning his face as she splayed her hands against his chest, shoving him off her. He plopped down beside her, propping his head on his elbow to face her.

“I wonder,” she said musingly, “What would happen if people at school saw you like this. If you would just-”

He shook his head, his mouth thinning into a frown, “Jaime, don’t start that again-”

There was a knock on the door, a teacher’s disapproving eye on them. “Mr. Petrelli, you have a family phone call.” He breathed a sigh of relief at the interruption, though by the look the girl on the bed was giving him, he knew the conversation wasn’t yet over.

He got to the front office, quiet given the fact most of the academy’s students had gone home for Thanksgiving weekend. At the first sign of his big brother’s voice, he was naturally ecstatic, but excitement quickly faded into dread.

There was something to be said about teenage pride as he hid himself in the boys’ washroom, determined not to let anyone else see him cry.

++

_The Bronx, St. Peter’s Mission_

Father Montgomery Petrelli sat uncomfortably in his confessional, leaning his head tiredly back against the wooden panel. It had been a long day, not to mention about to get even longer. Though he was more than willing to lend a listening ear to his beloved parishioners, he was only human, and the cramped space, not to mention boredom given the slowness of the afternoon, was bound to get to him.

There was a shuffling next-door and Monty brought himself out of his weary daze. He straightened his collar and cleared his throat, preparing himself to listen.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It had been six months since my last confession.”

Monty obediently made the sign of the cross. “Go on, my son.”

“Father, I’ve become a killer.”

Monty’s eyes widened, but he nodded quietly. “It’s alright. I’m here to listen.”

“…I’ve served in the military for years now, Father. I was always so proud of myself, to be doing my duty to my country. I never really saw any real action until last year, and that’s when it all began.”

There was anguish there and Monty frowned with sympathy, though his companion could not see it. “Continue when you’re ready, my son.”

“I’ve done things, Father. Horrible things. I’ve looked into the eyes of the men I’ve murdered. I’ve failed so many people, getting myself captured and made to watch their atrocities. It’s terrible, Father! Children were maimed, women were raped, my comrades killed right in front of me.

All of it because I was too late to help them. I couldn’t help me, Father. All I could do was watch…what kind of monster does that make me?”

His heart clenching painfully for the unseen man, Monty spent the next hour listening and soothing, giving advice and trying his hardest to ease the guilty torment the soldier was suffering.

After a long silence, after the sounds of crying he respectfully did not comment on, he received soft words of gratitude, and he shook his head. “It isn’t me you should be thanking, my son. It’s the Lord, and yourself. When the time comes that you can forgive yourself, He will have made his forgiveness known to you.”

He went through the blessings, and gave his suggestion. “For penance, I wish you to obtain a St. George pendant*. Wear it around your neck, and think of your brothers and sisters that have also seen the evils of war. Find solace in knowing you are not alone. There is always someone watching out for you.”

A quiet, “Amen.” A shuffle of movement, “Father?”

“Yes, my son?”

“When you listen or not, nonetheless, I want to thank you again. It’s been a long time, but I finally feel like I can breathe. I very much need that feeling for a day like today.”

“It’s just part of my duty.”

“Ah. But speaking of your duty, shouldn’t you be going, Father? I believe you have a memorial to preside over, am I right? Family affairs are always the most solemn.”

Monty sat in stunned silence, but before he could reply, the mysterious confessor had already gone.

++

_Brooklyn, New York- Abbott, Thomas & Thomas Law Firm _

“Sorry I took so long.”

“S’okay. It was good to have some quiet for a bit.”

He fell into step with his female companion. “Parenthood’s a killer for private time.”

She arched a fine eyebrow. “And how would you know this, Mr. Bachelor?”

He shrugged. “Matthew likes to bitch about the kids from time to time. I’m thirty-six, it’s not like I’m dying of old age. I’m in no rush. You on the other hand…”

She gave him a wan smile, running a hand through long dark hair. “I know. Marrying Frank was one of those running before you know how to crawl situations.”

He offered her his arm and she took it, linking her hand around his elbow. “Do you regret it?”

They crossed an intersection, heading for the subway in lieu of paying for a cab. “Marrying so young for all the wrong reasons, yeah. My son? Never.”

“That’s good.” He paused thoughtfully. “I think that’s how my mom felt about me. She and Dad’s relationship didn’t work out in the end, but I don’t think either of them regretted me.”

“Hmm,” she gave him a smile, “I don’t think your dad could ever regret you, Jake. It’s got to be nice having one son that’s not a complete tight ass.”

He let out a bark of laughter. Jacob Hanson was the product of the short-lived relationship between Audrey Hanson and Matt Parkman. While the two had genuinely cared for each other, in the long-run, both parties had decided it wasn’t the kind of feelings they could build a solid relationship on.

He was close to both his parents, his mother’s baby boy, Matt’s pride and joy, finding his youngest easier to relate to and understand than his difficult firstborn. He had followed in his father’s footsteps, being an NYPD detective, taking on his mother’s surname in order to avoid the attention that came from being a Parkman.

His older half-brother, Matthew, was, as his friend had put it, an extremely anal person. A prosperous city councilman quickly making his way to the top, arrogant and overachieving, his presence strenuous to be around. While he loved his brother, Jake most definitely preferred the more comfortable quiet of his laidback existence, rather than be exposed to the spotlight Matthew’s career brought about.

“Don’t get me started on that asshole. Did I ever tell you about last Christmas, when I hit him hard enough that he fell face-first into the eggnog?”

That earned him a bombardment of laughter. “No, you neglected to tell me that one. You’re lucky he didn’t sue you. Couldn’t charge you with assault with your dad’s rep, but legal action sounds like something Matthew would have done.”

“My mom talked him down from it. Lucky for me, he always had a soft spot for her.” They weaved their way through the crowds. “What if he had? Would you represent me?”

She smiled, amusedly shaking her head. “I’m a defense attorney, Jake. Not a miracle worker.”

“Valid point. Hey, could I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

He scooted a little closer to her on the seat they sat upon in the subway car to make room for another couple. “You’ve kept to yourself in this city because you use Frank’s name. What happens now that you’re gonna be under the Petrellis’ radar?”

She grimaced. “Dunno. I’ll have to wait and see. It’s not as if I want to be associated with them, but I haven’t got much choice now, huh?” She sighed. “My family needs me. I can’t do that from the shadows.”

“What’ll you do about Joshua?”

She blew out a breath. “Joshua is an entirely different issue, albeit even more complicated. I’ll have to play it by ear depending on what he’s like when I see him.”

“And if he’s not okay?”

“I’ll do what I can.” She placed a hand over her heart, frowning at the echoing pain she felt there. She could feel it, the pull, the loss, the parts of her crying out to someone, the parts of her hearing that other’s cries. “It’s Josh, you know?”

“I know.” Watching her resigned expression, Jake reached out and took her hand. “Hey, Rach?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m here if you need me. Just wanted you to know that.”

Looking up into the concerned eyes of her best friend of seven years, Rachel Petrelli-Abbott smiled. “Thanks, babe. That’s good to know.”

“Any time.”


	46. Epilogue III: In Loving Memory

_Staten Island, New York_

David Michael Petrelli stepped into the confines of the cemetery with a heavy solemnity out-of-ease with his usual character. He shuddered at the ill-ease that filled him, attempting in vain to “toughen himself” as his big brother would say, by trying to attribute the way he was shaking to the cold.

It did nothing to lessen his fear.

He felt awkward and smothered in the black suit that had been fitted to him. He tugged uncomfortably with his tie, the fashionable overcoat Joshua had left for him feeling far too heavy as he walked. The flat cap covering his buzzed head itched. He was glad the occasion did not call for him to erase the miserable expression from his face.

That thought brought a stab of guilt. Here he was, on his way to his parents’ memorial service, and all he could think about was his uncomfortable clothing.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the approach of Nathaniel, the second oldest of his three big brothers. As usual, he held that powerful, larger-than-life air about him inspired serious hero-worship when David was younger. It wasn’t that he didn’t look up to Josh- Joshua was the smart one, the responsible one, solid and dependable- but Nate was the strong one, and in the end, it was Nate that always made him feel the most protected.

As if in response to David’s trail of thought, the moment Nate reached him, he wrapped an arm around his shoulders, drawing the younger against his side as he gently guided him toward the small congregation gathering together.

“Where are the others?” David quietly asked, wincing as he heard the quiver in his voice.

“Joshua’s already here, with Alex and the kids. Nick rode with me- he had a quick call to make. I passed Iz in her car not too long ago, and I’m sure Rach in on her way.”

As if summoned by the sound of her name, David spotted their sister, Isabel, heading toward him, and Nate gave his shoulder a squeeze before he released him, knowing where he wanted to go. David gave his brother a grateful smile before he veered off, intent on the petite blond woman quickly approaching the pair.

David knew he should feel some sort of embarrassment at his sudden backtracking into childhood habits, clinging to his brothers and sisters, but he couldn’t summon up any as his sister opened her arms for him and he fell into them, unashamed. If Joshua was always there for him and Nate always made him feel protected, Isabel, the sister closest in age to him, had always been his comfort.

Isabel quietly held him, pained at the subtle quaking she felt in his tense body and she pressed a kiss to his temple. Over his head, she met Nate’s eyes, a silent message passing between them as she soothingly stroked the back of David’s neck. Baby of the family or not, there were times when the rest of them forgot David was so young. They might instinctively know when he needed them, but it didn’t mean they always remembered- the boy in her arms was more child than man.

Nicholas joined them then, dressed in black sweater, slacks, and leather jacket, his thick curls jelled down and slicked back.  He wrapped his arms around the both of them, pressing a kiss to Isabel, and then David’s, foreheads.

“Nicky,” his sister greeted him, leaning up to give him a light peck.

Nicholas gave her a warm smile, returning her kiss. “Hey, beautiful. Good to see you.”

David sniffled, cuddling closer to Nicholas. Nicholas rubbed his back, “Hey there, kiddo,” he said softly, “Long time no see.”

From his vantage not too far away, Joshua watched them, his eyes soft and his visage blanketed with both concern and pride. Alex stood at his back, feathering a kiss against his cheek as she noticed where his attention lay before turning back to entertain their six-year-old twins, Noah and Elizabeth.

It had been a strange thing, the oldest Petrelli pondered, coming here. So far from their home, and yet in a place that had been Peter and Claire’s a lifetime ago. Two days had passed since Nathan Petrelli had called him, two days that gave him time to fly in his siblings and help arrange a memorial service for his parents.

Nathan had argued the want to do something formal and stately, something fully Petrelli. Joshua had bitingly replied that Claire and Peter may have been Petrelli, but they were disowned, ignored relatives, and what good would it do to bring public attention to their unorthodox marriage? Nathan had kept quiet after that, grudgingly agreeing to a small service for friends and family.

Looking around now, it was from pictures and not memory of his own that Joshua recognized those gathering to say goodbye to his mother and father: his Uncle Isaac, Mohinder Suresh, D.L. Hawkins and his wife Niki, Micah and Molly Sanders, their three children included, Matt Parkman and his oldest son, Matthew, Hiro Nakamura and his two daughters, the oldest of which was clinging to the arm of Hiroshi Masahashi, there in place of his deceased father, Ando.

Many of them passed the occasional curious look in his direction as he walked to his brothers and sister. He figured Nathan had not bothered to tell anyone who he was. No matter, he thought, as he watched his grandfather discreetly approaching him, just short of arriving before his siblings did the same. The man hesitated, shook his head, and turned around to find his seat.

It was a quick succession that he made his way through the younger Petrellis. He firmly clasped Nate’s arm and gave him a warm welcome back. He let Isabel pull him into a quick embrace, sharing a chaste kiss to the mouth. He rested a hand against Nick’s shoulder, using the other to pat his brother’s cheek, gently smiling. He drew David into a tender hug, dropping a kiss to the top of his baby brother’s head. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he told them, his gaze trailing to encompass all of them.

Nate gave him a nod, “We wouldn’t be anywhere else, Josh.”

Isabel smiled, instantly comfortable in the warm presence of her brothers, laughing softly as both Joshua and Nate offered her their arms. She accepted both gestures, linking her arms through each of their elbows. Nicholas gravitated toward Nate’s side, throwing an arm around his brother’s shoulders.

Joshua motioned to David, causing the boy to curiously approach and then smile when Josh reached for him. David tucked himself against the shelter of his brother, the elder’s strong arm wrapped around him and holding him close to his side.

As one, they walked together toward the place where ceremony was to happen.

Nathan watched the quintet approach with wide eyes, those same eyes jumping from grandchild to grandchild as his mind catalogued eyes and hair and faces, bits and pieces of his daughter and brother. The five siblings partially broke apart as they took turns silently examining the headstones, the pictures displayed, and the flowers gathered together.

Isabel painfully closed her eyes, dropping her head to Nate’s shoulder and Nate shared a troubled look with Josh, to which the elder responded by brushing his lips against his sister’s forehead.

“Shh, Iz. We’re here.”

With a worried frown, Nicholas gave her a tender hug, earning him a responding squeeze and a grateful kiss to the cheek. David reached out and took her hand, Isabel giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. Reading his expression and realizing it was for his comfort as much as hers, she settled herself against his side. David looked grateful, leaning his head against hers. Nicholas stood at their backs, his hands a reassuring weight against a shoulder each.

Meanwhile, Joshua and Nate, more outwardly controlled than the younger three, sharing a few quiet words in regards to the attention they were getting. Surprisingly, the first to gather the courage to approach was Suresh. The scientist regarded each sibling contemplatively, finally offering his hand to Joshua, recognizing his somewhat patriarchal status.

“Mohinder Suresh. I assume you are…”

The unspoken implication hung in the air, and Joshua gave a nod of confirmation. “Joshua Petrelli. This is Nathaniel,” indicating each with a nod of his head, “Isabel, Nicholas, and David.”

Mohinder gave a nod and a pleasant greeting with each introduction. “I have to say, it’s a pleasure to meet you all. I know your parents were destined for a home and family, but it’s still a wonderful surprise to meet you face-to-face.”

Seeing the good doctor in a pleasant dynamic with the five, one by one, the others came to meet their old friends’ enigmatic children.

Niki cried quickly and commented on what beautiful children Claire and Peter. “I was the first one Claire showed your first sonogram picture to after she came from the doctor,” she said to Joshua, “You were a miracle, child. Each and every one of you.”

Micah and Molly were sad and respectful, telling them how much they had looked up to the couple. “We were just kids when they left, but they were such good people. Claire was like the big sister I never had.” Molly smiled sadly. “Don’t tell the others, but Peter was my favorite uncle.”

Micah squeezed his wife’s hand, “They never talked down to us. They respected our opinion, and gave their help to anyone that needed it. Everyone knew they were destined for something great.”

D.L. was solemn, “Sunshine was one of the good ones, I’ll tell you that. And Hero, he might’ve had his screw-ups, but he did right by her in the end. They were good folk, your mom and dad.”

Matt tapped his fingers through his temple. “I’ve been in their head and back. The love they had between them…it’s not something you get to see everyday…”

Hiro, even with his youthful exuberance reined in over the years, gave them each a warm embrace. “Cheerleader Claire and Peter Petrelli were the greatest of heroes. Their hearts joining together with such love was surely destiny!”

Isaac hung back, hands in his pockets and he watched them uncomfortably. Isabel watched him and cautiously approached him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Uncle Isaac,” her voice was soft as she spoke to him.

He looked up, his expression hopeful, his joy quite genuine at the hug she gave him, the handshakes his nephews bestowed on him.

Amongst all the chaos, a pair slipped into the fold, the man giving the woman a questioning look with a nod toward his own family. She bit her lip and shrugged, touching her hand to his, letting him know he was free to leave if he wanted, but she much preferred him to stay.

Jake took her hand in his, their fingers tightly entwining as they remained side-by-side, waiting for acknowledgement from the Petrellis.

David was the first to notice the couple and he exuberantly flew to his sister. “Rachel!”

Rachel gave her baby brother a bright smile, cupping his face between her hands. She studied him, taking in the stubble, his dark hair cropped down to a close-cut buzz. He was at height with her, baby fat slimmed down into handsome angles. Her baby brother wasn’t such a baby anymore.

But when he pressed into her and burying his face into her hair as she enfolded him in her arms, she had to smile. There was still parts of their precious boy inside the emerging man.

Rachel stepped forward and exchanged the customary hugs and kisses with the others. She lingered on Joshua and they stared at each other for a long moment- hazel-green to coffee-brown eyes, and she watched those green eyes darken with emotion. She responded by leaning up on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his neck to whisper in his ear how much she had missed him.

Her big brother, her Joshua, held her to him possessively. Four years younger, she was the first to be born after him, the first younger sibling that came into the world for him to cherish and protect. For that, the bond between them was closer, more intense than any of the others. It scared her sometimes, that she even knew him better than Alex, more than what should be expected of his wife and lover.

“Rachel,” he breathed into her hair, nuzzling against her temple. She caressed his cheek, giving him a soft, tender smile.

He loosened his grip on her slightly and she looked over his shoulder to see Jake looking at her quizzically, and she shrugged, turning back to Joshua. She closed her eyes and focused on her brother- pain, grief, uncertainty, love, fear, relief.

It was hard to explain situations to others when it was a close, intensive _empathetic_ bond you shared with your brother.

She concentrated on that special aura unique to him and projected feeling to him- love, reassurance, all of the like. She smiled softly as she felt him relax, rubbing her hand soothingly against his back.

_Is he alright?_

Isabel’s worried voice filled her head and Rachel glanced in her sister’s direction, giving her a nod. The younger visibly sagged with relief and she gave the equivalent of a mental sigh.

_Thank God. We’ve all been worried about him. David naturally comes to us. Nicholas has such an open face. Nate’s stubborn but he knows when to ask for help. But Joshua…_

_He always tries to be the strong one,_ Rachel replies sardonically, _He’s completely unreadable unless you know him._

_Thankfully, you do._

_Only took me thirty-something years to perfect the skill._

_Heh._

_Excuse me,_ a foreign but familiar voice interrupted, _I’m sorry if I’m butting in, but is it alright to come to him? I didn’t want to interrupt your time together._

Rachel flushed. She forgot at times, that while Joshua’s wife was primarily a telekinetic, she still housed touches of telepathy.

 _It’s fine, Alexia,_ Isabel told her.

 _I’m sorry,_ Rachel replied, apologetic, _I didn’t mean you feel as if you had to stay away._

Soft laughter and what would pass as a warm smile was her response. _There is no need to be sorry, dear. I know there are some things that should not be tread upon. I know when Josh needs me, and when he needs his family. He needed you, Rachel. That’s all that matters._

 _Alright,_ Rachel gave her agreement, still feeling a bit embarrassed. Jake returned to her, slipping an arm around her waist, deciding to keep quiet out of respect. She leaned into him, sighing quietly as they took their seats.

Not far away, Joshua smiling softly as Alex and their children joined him shortly after. He was surrounded by family, feeling his wife’s hand warm in his, his son and daughter seated upon his knees, with Rachel’s tentative brush against his mind. Knowing it to be an inquiry into his emotional state, he inclined his head toward her, receiving a quiet smile in return.

Joshua smiled in reply, and turned his attention to the service.

Father Monty Petrelli began with a blessing, and then began to speak. “Family and friends, we are gathered here today in loving memory…”


	47. Epilogue IV: Bloodline

Not to vain in any way, but the more Isabel Petrelli watched her family, the more she had to admit they made an impressive lot.

She’d never thought herself anything particularly special. She was pretty enough, she supposed, inevitable given how much she resembled a true beauty like her mother. She was a twenty-six-year-old intern fashion designer, fairly talented. She dated occasionally, but met no one that held her interest.

In short, she was nothing extraordinary. Her siblings on the other hand…

The first one to catch her eye, she decided, would have to be either Nate or Rachel. The latter, at thirty-one, was a slender, statuesque beauty, characterized by long, raven hair, sensual dark eyes, and a flirty smile. She was a favorite of the opposite sex, somewhat unfortunate when she married Frank Abbott, a Wall Street tycoon over ten years her senior, when she was twenty-three.

The marriage had lasted six years, but her sister was miserable for most of it. Isabel knew sadly, the only thing that had really kept Rachel around Abbott’s money. It wasn’t as if Rachel was the gold-digger type, it was more that Frank had been half-mindedly supporting her through law school. It was something the family couldn’t afford after putting their brothers’ and her through four years each, as well as Joshua’s tenure through medical school.

By the time Rachel graduated, took a stead job at a local firm, and settled in by making a name for herself within two years, her relationship with Frank had deteriorated to divorce. The only remains of their relationship were Rachel’s financial settlement and her son, baby Parker.

Seeing Rachel side-by-side with a decent man like Jacob Hanson was definitely a good sign.

Nate, on the other hand, drew attention to himself just by the power of presence he gave off. With close-cut dark hair and Rossi eyes, Nathaniel Isaac Petrelli was a handsome catch, with a smile that had girls swooning over him all through high school, and a charisma that couldn’t quite be explained.

Twenty-eight, he was a big man, over six feet tall and generously muscled; he bore a great deal of resemblance to the man he was named for, at least according to the pictures their parents had. In present terms, she saw little of the strong, proud Nate in the tired old man she’d been introduced to as Nathan Petrelli.

Most of all, what gave Nate such respectful attention, was the immaculately pressed uniform adorning him, down to the polished shoes, the shining brass buttons and the adorned beret. He was the epitome of everything a soldier should be, and she had to admit that First Lieutenant Petrelli suited him well. Nate was a stoic, stubborn sort of man, with a fierce sense of honor and duty. It seemed only fitting that he followed the hero path in the way that made most sense to him.

Nicholas Carlo was twenty, on the shorter side, with dark curls, chestnut-colored eyes, and a warm charm to him. Claire had once told her that Nicholas was the most like the younger Peter, whimsical, clever and imaginative, a dreamer. He was charming as he was fickle, brilliant as he was mischievous, exasperating as he was precious. He was an aspiring artist, incredibly talented, and he took to canvas and brush with the same ease most people use to breathe.

Her brother was gay. It was just a fact, as much as his hair was dark and he loved to paint. By the time he hit his senior year, he had come to a stage where he was accepting and comfortable with himself, and he had come out to his family and friends. As she watched him, he fingered the silver band on his right hand. It was a promise ring, the twin belonging to Nicholas’s lover, Max. The two of them had exchanged the rings when they were eighteen, a promise they made to each other to marry when they graduated. Isabel was always tempted to swoon at the sweet romance of the whole affair.

Only seventeen, David Michael was the youngest. He had a boyish face and an innocent smile. About average height, he was still growing quickly, his frame filling out with lean but sleekly defined muscle. His eyes were the color of a summer sky, inherited from their Grandma Vivien. Those baby blues were gentle and innocent as ever before, and she knew it was really no wonder how his siblings would forever seem him as the baby of the family, whether he was five or fifty. David was never really irritated with or too indulgent about the attention they lavished on him. He wasn’t one to take advantage, but he drew the line at being smothered.

He was a serious boy, a quiet boy. While their parents had worried about David being too withdrawn as a child, Isabel had always thought her brother spoke when he found it important, and he just didn’t find idle chatter to be worth his time. His words were always clear, concise, and mature for his age, and soon enough, Claire and Peter shrugged it off as another uniqueness in their less than average children.

He had a habit of being alone. His family knew it was just habit and a occasional desire for quiet to think, not a true want for isolation. He was instead very affectionate, fond of touch from those he was familiar and comfortable with. Isabel has lost count of the multiple times growing up when David shuffled up to her, not saying a word, looking up at her with big blue eyes, wide and vulnerable, waiting for her to acknowledge him. She had always seen those silent moments to be his evaluating whether she would be receptive to him or not. All she had to do was open her arms or hold out a hand, and a still wordless David would snuggle up to her. He was a warm and soft bundle of little boy, the only movement coming from him being the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

David was sensitive, creative, and had a passion for both books and writing. He has always been the contemplating type, keeping most of his thoughts inside. He was more of an observer, capable of staring into space for hours as his clever mind and imagination worked. He knew people, and it was part of what made him such an amazing author and poet. He was close and beloved to each of them in different ways. He was the light of their lives, bright and warm and loving, the centre of the strange bonds that drew the six of them together so tightly.

From the moment he was born, David, vulnerable and screaming, had cried out to all of them with an overwhelming feeling of want and need. And they had all felt the pull, mental and emotional, ever since. Whenever David needed them, it never failed.

Joshua…now Joshua was a hard man to figure out. Tall, not as powerfully built as their soldier brother but gifted in physique nonetheless. Their mother’s eyes, their father’s smile. Thick black hair fell in thick curls, combed back to brush against his shirt collar, the ringlets doing nothing to soften the ruggedness of his face. He was pure masculinity, all hard lines, sleek angles, and broad shoulders, solid as he was strong.

Stoic, but gentle, warmly loving but fiercely protective, loyal and hardworking. He as a healer, the one who looked out for them as children, soothed their pains, physical or emotional, with tenderness and care. He was Dr. Joshua Petrelli, skilled surgeon and saver of lives. He was a loving husband, a wonderful father, an adored big brother.

He was an enigma.

There was something to him…something she could never quite figure out. Even Rachel, whose head and heart had been entwined with him from birth, couldn’t put her finger on just what the weird vibe the firstborn Petrelli put off. She supposed it didn’t really matter. He was Josh, and that was all any of them needed to know. She pondered that thought for a moment, watching her brothers and sister interact and mingle, both with each other and others.

They had all their individual strengths, and their different roles. Rachel was their inspiration, the one that endured and came out alright. Nathaniel was their strength, the proud and loyal protector. Nicholas was their hope, the dreamer who brought light into their lives. David was their integrity, sharp and intuitive. Joshua was their heart, the healer who forged a bright future for all of them.

She idly wondered where that left her.

_You really shouldn’t doubt yourself so much._

Though she should have known better by now, Isabel still found herself starting at the unexpected reply to her thoughts. Rachel was an empath, but unlike their father, her power didn’t come in the form of absorption, but true empathy. The same way Isabel could both hear and send thoughts of her own, Rachel could not only feel the emotions of the people around her, but she could also ‘push’ her own feelings to an individual if she so chose. Rachel must have caught her changing moods, likely much stronger with their connection, and her sister had proceeded to ‘push’ at Isabel. Isabel then felt an intense awareness of the elder, shifting all her attention there, and she was able to receive Rachel’s thoughts loud and clear above everything else.

_Are you even listening to me, or are you caught up in that crazy head of yours?_

Isabel found herself smiling at the sound of Rachel’s “I’m the big sister and you’ll do as I say” tone.

_Who are you calling crazy? I’d consider myself sane compared to the rest of you. Especially you._

_Blame Josh for my insanity, not me. You try being bonded to a moody half-Italian with a hero complex and a habit of suppressing his emotions, for thirty years. See if you don’t develop any issues then._

Isabel had to work to stifle her laughter; lest the people around her think she was losing it. _I pity you._

 _I’ll keep that in mind._ Rachel continued, her tone wickedly teasing, _I always did wonder why he liked playing doctor so much when we were kids._

_RACH!! You’re horrible!_

A mental smirk.

_Did you have reason for all of this, or did you just want to unsettle me in front of a couple dozen strangers?_

_I did have a point._

_Finally._

_Isabel Vivien!_

_Alright!_

_I need you to remember something._

_I’m listening._

_Iz, your observational skills are always lacking when it comes to yourself. Don’t forget, that if there’s anything you are to the rest of us, its love._

_Sweetie, you’re the love that holds us all together._

There was a phantom feeling of a light kiss against her forehead and then nothing, but even after Rachel’s mental presence was long gone, Isabel didn’t lose the warmth her sister’s words left behind.

++

Isaac watched quietly.

His family, he marveled. He was watching his family.

He had never quite made those connections in his mind fully- Peter Petrelli, once shaky acquaintance to a sudden brother. But those last few visits had begun to cement a bond most possibly started with a curious toddler and a half-grown baby in the womb. Seeing his and Claire’s children now, put together the final pieces of the puzzle he’d sought so hard since his mother’s death.

His mother. Nico.

There had never been any question that Nico’s legacy was continued on in Peter, wholeheartedly, but there was it had always saddened Isaac to know there was little of their mother in either of them. Their hearts, yes; parts of their personality, certainly, but their fathers’ genetics dominated both her sons.

Perhaps he was biased, but as he watched now, the more he came to realize it was in Peter and Claire’s progeny that Vivien McCain really began to shine through.

Physically, Rachel looked a great deal like her grandmother, the impression of a slender, statuesque beauty, but above all else, she was her father’s daughter. Her younger brothers, Nathan and Nicholas, had Petrelli written all over them, and her sister was the epitome of all that was Claire.

David…David was different; it was almost eerie how much Vivien echoed in her grandson. The eyes, the hair, the nose, the resemblance was all there. But as much as David resembled Isaac’s mother, he lacked that same sort of character. He was quiet, unintrusive, while Vivien had always had a presence about her that was just so _her_.

Joshua’s children-the twins- were really what caught his eye- peaches-n’-cream complexions, bright smiles, fair-brown hair, and blue-green eyes. They were the embodiment of everything he remembered about his mother.

They had all gathered together after the memorial, which he admitted, had been pleasant if not a bit off in feeling. His gaze was drawn to the twins almost instinctually, as he watched them chase one another around a piano. The boy, Noah, suddenly tripped and pitched over the bench, and his wailing scream most likely had much to do with the awkward angle his ankle was now set in.

Isaac and several others had already begun to step forward when the child’s father suddenly came swooping in, soothing his son with a caressing hand and quiet words.

He watched Joshua place his hand over his son’s ankle, his palm lifting a moment later, and the boy jumped up a moment later with dried tears and a challenge to his sister. Isaac barely held back a chuckle.

Gazing wistfully at the playing children, he wondering if his little brother had seen the same thing. Knowing Peter, it was doubtful something like that would fail to catch his eye. Peter had known.

Isaac smiled softly.

His parents lived on.

++

_Seattle, Washington (2030)_

Peter Petrelli frowned with instant concern as he stepped into the family room to find his wife seated upon the couch, a distant, dazed expression clouding her beautiful face. He sat down beside her, placing a tentative hand against her shoulder. “Claire, sweetheart, what are you thinking about?”

“The children.”

“Which one?”

She gave a small smile at the humor in his tone. “Good point. But after today, who do you think?”

“…Rachel…”

“Who else? She really is something special, isn’t she?”

“That just might be the understatement of the year. An eleven-year-old jumping in front of a moving car to save her teenage brother. Not exactly something you see every day.”

“No, it isn’t,” she quietly agreed, dropping her head to his shoulder. “Neither of them of self-healers, Peter, and she did it anyway, without a second thought. And Joshua was so frantic…”

“Hmm,” he hummed a thoughtful agreement.

“Peter, what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know if there’s such much we can do. We knew something like this was coming. We knew it from the time each of them was born.”

“The dreams. You’re sure there’s no way to escape them?”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and settled against him, resting his head atop of her as he tried to soothe her shaking. “We can try, Claire. But it’s bound to happen someday. Destiny always had a way of coming back. Remember Kirby Plaza?”

“…we stopped it…”

“No, not completely. We stopped the worst-case scenario. We stopped the destiny Linderman and Angela had planned. But it didn’t change the fact that I lost control, that I would have exploded. It was still destiny that it happened.”

She closed her eyes, swallowing hard. “They’re just children, Peter. What do you know about sacrifice and pain for the greater good? Why them?”

He kissed her softly. “The world needs heroes, love. In all different kinds.”

_“The lover and the healer will come together, and from them will come our hope, the heart of the people. He will be the man his father and grandfather were always hoping to be. He will be the one we need-”_


	48. Epilogue V: Second Heartbeat

_Odessa, Texas- 2019_

He could hear Mommy screaming.

Grandma was holding his hand tightly, keeping from getting up and running to her like he wanted to. Grandpa and Uncle Lyle were standing nearby, looking stressed, Aunt Lucy sitting across from him and Grandma, holding his sleeping cousin. Richie was a weirdo, being able to sleep through all of this.   
  
Mommy screamed again and his young face screwed up in sympathy. He pulled again and Grandma’s hand, whining when she wouldn’t let him go. She shushed him, turning back to watch that strange door that everyone’s attention. He knew that door would lead to him to Mommy and most likely Daddy too.   
  
Logically, he knew Daddy could help Mommy, knew that Mommy could help herself, but logic meant little to a four-year-old that could feel his mother’s pain. He could feel it pulsing through him- the knowledge that she was hurting, knowing he could make her feel better.   
  
He pulled again at Grandma’s hand once more and she gave him an exasperated look, but she wasn’t the only one irritated. Tears spilled into his eyes and he struggled to get away, “Let me go. Let me help Mommy!!”  
  
Grandpa’s arms wrapped around his writhing body, soft words seeking to soothe him, but Joshua would have none of it. He squirmed and fought, most especially when he felt that new presence, another hurting.   
  
“Let me go, LET ME GO!!” he wailed, feeling that strange person’s pain grow and grow, “Grandpa, let me go. Hurts. It hurts!! Baby hurts. I need’a help her!!!”  
  
Grandpa gave him a startled look. “What?!”  
  
“She’s scared!! Something’s hurting her!! Let me go!!!”  
  
Grandpa still had that strange look on his face. “Joshua, can you feel her? The baby?”  
  
“YES!! Let me GO!!!!”  
  
Grandpa held him tight, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Joshua. I can’t.”  
  
He cried and he screamed, feeling the baby’s pain and fear and panic. She hurt, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t move.   
  
“Grandpa, why wouldn’t they HELP HER!!!?”  
  
Grandpa dropped a kiss to the top of his head, tightening his arms around him. “They’re doing the best they can, my boy.”  
  
He would catch bits and pieces he didn’t really understand later on from the grown-ups’ conversations, talk of the baby breeching, a C-section being impossible, mother and child surviving together being a near-miracle.   
  
He didn’t really care about any of that, Daddy had come out of that room, sweaty and tired, but grinning. Shortly after, Daddy led to the place Mommy and the baby was resting.   
  
That was the first time Joshua Petrelli laid eyes on his beloved Rachel.  
  
She was tiny and dark-haired, rosy-cheeked and beautiful. Cautiously, with encouragement from his parents, he reached out, gently touching his hands to those squirming feet.   
  
And everything changed.   
  
For years he wouldn’t understand it, could never really understand, but instantly, he felt it. It was warm and fuzzy and safe, wrapping around him with love and adoration and hope. It filled something in him, completed something in his young heart he hadn’t realized was missing until that moment.   
  
He felt her confusion and he soothed her, identifying himself. “Joshua.”  
  
_“J’awa.”_ The whisper was mental, not quite coherent, but it was there all the same.   
  
He smiled. Close enough.   
  
_“La’you.”_  
  
“Love you too.”  
  
++

“Will you come to see me?”  
  
The question from Nathan was hesitating, cautious, and even in his bitterness, Joshua couldn’t help the way he softened just a little as he glanced up at his grandfather.   
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“Will you come to see me? I’d like to talk.”  
  
Joshua gave him a stony glare.  
  
Nathan sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. “Just a few minutes of your time. Please.”  
  
“…alright…” came Joshua’s reluctant agreement.   
  
A few minutes became two hours, four after Rachel’s visit followed her brother’s, and so on with Nate, Nicky, Isabel and David.   
  
With every word he shared with his grandchildren, Nathan’s heart began to heal bit by bit.   
  
As each turned to leave, he made one last, heartfelt apology and each of the children nodded at his words, the look in their eyes confirming that they did, indeed, forgive him to some degree.   
  
And always, each time, he would say, “I did love them,” not much more audible than a whisper, but still enough to be heard, “And I do love you.”  
  
Redemption, like the past, was a bittersweet thing.   
  
++  
  
They sat quietly together in what they had been told was Arthur, and then Nathan’s, old study. It wasn’t the most comfortable of places, but the view of the nearby skyline was a spectacular one. He had been sitting in their grandfather’s wingback chair, facing the window, when she walked in behind him, really not a surprise that she knew where to find him.   
  
She had joined him without a word. Seeing no other place she could seat herself, he had taken her hand, gently pulling her toward him. Before he could settle her in her lap, she sprang away from him, rising shakily to her feet.   
  
He regarded her quizzically, a little hurt at the rejection. “What’s wrong?”  
  
Rachel bit her lip nervously, “Do you think this is weird?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Us.”  
  
And in that common clueless nature that seemed to characterize all male kind, he remained…clueless. “What about us?”  
  
She rolled her eyes, “The way we are with each other. Do you think it’s weird?”  
  
He smiled. “None of us are exactly normal, Rach.”  
  
Rachel threw her hands up, exasperated. “Why do brothers have to be such idiots?! You know exactly what I’m talking about.”  
  
Joshua nodded, “I know. Why would you say weird?”  
  
“For one thing, I shouldn’t be sitting there,” she pointed toward his lap.  
  
He thought for a moment and then frowned, seeing her point. “I’m…sorry…?”  
  
She smiled for him, shaking her head bemusedly. “You don’t have to be. I was just…attempting to look at us from an outside perspective.”  
  
“And from the outside looking in, we seem weird?”  
  
She nodded. “I’d say so.”  
  
He smiled enigmatically and motioned to her, “C’mere.”  
  
Confused herself nearly as much as she had puzzled him, she obeyed, not resisting when he tugged her to sit stand between his legs. The proximity was nothing new, nothing strange to them and she relaxed, letting her hand rest against his shoulder, idly toying with his shirt collar.   
  
“I know it’s not normal, Rach. But it’s not as if anything in our lives have ever been normal. But this…you and me…has there ever been any sense of anything but right to it? We’re not doing something wrong, sis, nothing that would hurt anybody.”  
  
He took her hands, softly kissed them. “Are you worried about what people might think?”  
  
“…no…no, not really…”  
  
“Then why bring it up?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
He only nodded in understanding, deciding not to push any further. She still wouldn’t sit with him, settling herself on the arm of his chair instead. Together, as they watched the glittering light of the city, he found himself absently stroking her arm and stopped, staring uncomfortably at his hand.   
  
He and Rachel had always been close- he wondered if one could consider it uncomfortably close. He had only been four when she was born but the first time he had touched the baby, he felt something spark and connect, something strange form. The older they grew, the more it became apparent that it was a bond- a bond more powerful than anything else Rachel’s empathy had ever managed to manifest since.   
  
She knew him inside and out- always had, always would. That was a given. She had told him once, that if she let her defenses down, she could read everything from him, every impression of a thought; every little nuance of emotion: everything. It was as if she’d wrapped her mind around his heart and never been able to escape.   
  
Strangely enough, it never bothered him she knew so much. Instead, he envied it from time to time. The only time he ever caught even the faintest empathetic echo from her was when he healed her, and even then, it was so rare, quick and fleeting, that each time, he had to wonder if it had just been his imagination.   
  
It had always seemed perfectly normal to him, natural and necessary. Something about Rachel pulled at him, shifted something inside him- it wasn’t just that he wanted her with him- he needed her with him.   
  
He wanted her close, wanted to know she was there and with him. Rachel could always feel him through his heart; Joshua compensated through physical contact, and Rachel had always obliged him- often enough for touching him to become second nature.   
  
It wasn’t sexual- the very thought disgusted him- nowhere near vaguely romantic. His desire to be with her was innocent, his love was untainted. It wasn’t something he understood, just something he accepted. Their siblings had never given their intimacy a second glance; their parents had never questioned; even Alex remained unruffled. The bond was strong: it was there, it was real, and in his mind, there really wasn’t much else to it.   
  
“I read somewhere about sibling bonds. Seems like more a kinda twin thing. Something about being together in the same womb or something.”  
  
“Mmm,” she’d touched her fingers to his cheek, tracing them along his jaw, and he leaned into the touch contently, “We came from the same place. Doesn’t sound all that different.”  
  
She shrugged thoughtfully and studied him. He kept quiet, letting her have her silence as she trailed her fingers upward, brushing against his sideburns and then running along the furrows in his forehead, soothing the stress lines.   
  
“Strange?” she asked.   
  
“Most definitely.”  
  
“…wrong…?”  
  
“Never.” Joshua affirmed.   
  
Rachel smiled. 


	49. Epilogue VI: Remember To Breathe

Nate found his big sister standing alone outside, on the balcony overlooking what he guessed were family gardens, dead and still with the December cold. She was staring into the night, absently stroking the hair of the little boy resting against her hip, wrapped up in her arms. Not for the first time, Nate found himself grateful not to see much of Frank Abbott in his nephew, nothing of the absentee sperm donor that hadn’t seen his son since his first birthday. No, instead there was pure Rossi-Petrelli in Rachel’s Parker and in the end he was just that- Rachel’s.  
  
He came to stand beside her, resting his hands against the railing as he slowly breathed in the night air. “Parker asleep?”  
  
She turned her head toward him, “Yeah. I’ll have to take him back inside soon before we both freeze, but he was insistent on watching the snow. Sometimes he won’t go to bed when there’s snow falling.”  
  
“Sounds like someone we know. Remember Atlanta?”  
  
Rachel’s expression was at first puzzled and then contemplative, finally settling on fond remembrance. “I remember. It was before David was born, right? So I must have been about eleven- you were eight, I think. Dad decided to take all of us with him when he had to go to that conference.”  
  
“Yeah. And it snowed that year for the first time in like…ten years, I think, for them. Dad was so excited. That was before we left Texas, so he hadn’t seen snow in years.”  
  
She smiled. “That feels so long ago, doesn’t it?”  
  
He huffed out a breath with a weary nod. “Yeah, it does. It really does.”  
  
“You okay, Nate?”  
  
He cocked his head slightly in her direction, fondness filling him as he took note of her concern. “I’m dealing.”  
  
“It’s not just Mom and Dad on your mind, is it?”  
  
He looked up at her, briefly surprised and then smiled ruefully when she tapped a finger just below her breastbone- the place where one could feel the first echoes of a heartbeat. Of course.  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
She slipped her arm through his and gently led him away. Nate said nothing but followed her inside. Rachel took the time to put Parker to bed and then returned to him. She shivered as she came closer to him and he frowned, asking softly, “Cold?”  
  
She nodded and he snapped his fingers, setting a decent flame in the nearby fireplace. She smiled to herself at that: trust Nate to do such a thing, despite the hearth being electric.  
  
She then proceeded to seat herself beside him on the touch, took his hands in hers, and listened.  
  
He proceeded to spill everything after that, the words leaving him without conscious decision. Rachel’s presence always seemed to have that effect on him. It was just like his younger years, when he could talk to his big sister about anything and everything.  
  
He told her of the guilt and frustration that had been building up since he had been deployed for the first time to fight in active combat just a little over a year ago. Their parents’ memorial was the first time since then he’d had the chance to step back onto American soil. He told her of the things he’d done and the things he’d seen.  
  
Rachel said and did nothing but put her arms around him. And strong, stoic Nate finally let himself cry.  
  
That was the way Isabel, Nicholas and David stumbled across them a few minutes later, having sensed Nate’s distress. They stopped abruptly in the doorway at the sight before them, not having expected the intensity that greeted them. Rachel felt their presence immediately and looked up at them, placing a finger against her lips.  
  
Unspoken understanding and Isabel grabbed both her younger brothers’ hand, pulling them out of the room. They made their way down the hallway a respectable distance and then stopped, staring awkwardly at each other.  
  
“Iz…?” David’s expression was a naked jumble of confusion and fear without Isabel even having to lightly touch his thoughts.  
  
Isabel smiled wanly; she wasn’t doing much better herself. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I bet there’s got to be some cocoa around here somewhere.”  
  
Nicholas sighed with relief, welcoming both the distraction and the reminder of their mother. “Sounds good.” He reached down, ruffling his sister’s hair. Isabel gave him a look, bumping him with her hip. David grinned at them. They all laughed lightly, making their way toward the expansive Petrelli kitchen.  
  
A little later, Nathan and Rachel sat together, quietly in the family room, lost in their own thoughts. Nate’s tears had long since calmed and he lay back against the couch, eyes half-closed as Rachel ran an absent hand through his hair.  
  
“Nate.”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“I need you to do something for me.”  
  
“Anything, Rach. You know that.”  
  
“I need you to promise me, that if anything ever happens, you’ll take care of him. All of you.”  
  
Nate’s head shot up and he looked at his sister sharply. From the look in her eyes, he had a feeling she wasn’t talking about Parker.  
  
“Rach…”  
  
“Just promise me, Nate.”  
  
“Alright. I promise.” Whatever it was he was promising, he wasn’t quite sure, but from that point on, whenever he thought of Joshua and Rachel in the same context, there would be a sinking feeling in his gut he could not quite dismiss.  
  
_Washington, D.C. (2045)_  
  
Simon Petrelli sat at his desk in shadowed light, rubbing a hand against his face as exhaustion tore at him. Politics these days really were straining: a world in chaos- maybe he should have listened more to Uncle Pete’s talk of heroes all those years ago.  
  
Uncle Peter…he hated this time of year, where he couldn’t even get the time off to attend his own uncle’s memorial (not to mention his sister’s). Nothing in the world, natural or manmade, could have kept him away otherwise.  
  
But he served his country, and in return, his country ruled him.  
  
A sudden movement out of the corner of his eye and he flew to his feet, regarding with startled eyes the man now leaning against his open window, apparently having appeared out of thin air, considering they were on the tenth floor of a smooth brick building.  
  
“Wh-who the hell?”  
  
“Good evening, Senator.”  
  
The man seemed casual, almost amused, and Simon almost sputtered in his bewilderment. “How did you get in here?”  
  
“Flew,” the stranger told him airily, “My little brother adores his ability. Never turns down a chance to use it.”  
  
Simon stared.  
  
Again, that amused tone, “Would it help if I introduced myself?”  
  
Slightly recovering, Simon replied dryly, “I would help.”  
  
“Dr. Josh Petrelli at your service. It’s nice to finally meet you, Uncle Simon. Or is it cousin?”  
  
The Senator’s jaw dropped.  
  
“Now that introductions are over, let’s get down to business. You’re running in next year’s election, yes?”  
  
“W-what of it?”  
  
Joshua flashed him a grin. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”  


_Washington D.C. (2058)_  
  
Joshua sat across from the representative of the North African Union (a/n: author privilege, I suck at both politics and geography), both men left at a standstill. For the past three hours, they had been meticulously going over the details of the negotiations between the Union and its neighbors.  
  
“Prime Minister, may I speak freely?”  
  
The sternly-frowning African regarded him suspiciously and then tightly answered, “If you must.”  
  
“Prime Minister, I mean no harm, nor insult, to your people, but at this moment, we are the only hope to solving one of the world’s most volatile conflicts.  
  
Sir, I understand the Union’s need for independence, but your economy is suffering, Prime Minister, your people are going hungry. This campaign is costing your people in more sons and daughters every day.  
  
I have, in formal writing, a compromise willing to be reached. If you are willing to listen, I believe we can bring a satisfied and peaceful ending for both sides.”  
  
Looking thoughtful, the Prime Minister leaned back in his chair and gestured toward him. “Let’s talk then, Ambassador.”  
  
++  
  
He walked through his D.C. office, quiet and thinking.  
  
He lightly touched the picture frames on the mantel and smiled. Family photos, the five of them together, other times including children and spouses. Pictures of his parents. His and Alex’s tenth anniversary dinner.  
  
Nate in his uniform. Both Nicholas and David’s graduations. Isabel heading her first major charity event. Children. His and Alex’s- Noah, Elizabeth, and two-year-old Hope. Rachel’s two- Parker and her youngest- Joseph. Her wedding to Jake.  
  
…Rachel…  
  
It had happened on a Saturday in September, a clear, sunny afternoon, three years ago. He had returned that morning from a strenuous conference in London, eager to spent time with his family.  
  
As the Vice-President had been with him, there had been a crowd to greet them when they stepped off the plane in D.C. Alex and the kids were in New York, and though given a reprieve from international travel, there were still several days of business left to sort out at the White House. Rachel had been the only family member available, and near enough, to come and meet him.  
  
Nate, overseas on an unknown battlefield. Nicky, a student at Harvard. Isabel, heading her own fashion line in L.A whose profits were directly linked to the Petrelli Foundation, a humanitarian group started for refugees in world-wide war zones.  
  
Rachel. New York City’s District Attorney- on vacation to see family.  
  
He was delighted to see her, as always, and he walked with her on his arm toward the car waiting for him, chattering excitedly about his trip. Rachel had laughed and ruffled his hair, teasing him.  
  
He didn’t see it coming.  
  
A shot fired, people panicked and he felt the weight of his sister’s weight fall into him. He placed a hand against her back to support her, thinking she had lost her balance, only to feel the sticky wet of her blood.  
  
His blood. Petrelli blood.  
  
Spilled Petrelli blood.  
  
He couldn’t heal her. The shot had killed instantly. He wasn’t a miracle worker. His power was too weak to restore the dead.  
  
The assassin had intended the new ambassador, young and radical, ambitious and determined to move toward change. Change was different. Change was sudden. Change was dangerous.  
  
Even among all those people, among all those different hearts, his sister had sensed a single individual’s threat, the ill-intentions of one man out of hundreds. She threw herself in front of him, just in time.  
  
And Rachel had paid the price.  
  
As to be expected, he took her passing the hardest. He physically hurt just thinking of her to this day. Losing her had been like losing the other half of his soul.  
  
But she had left him a parting gift.  
  
It started small- he felt her presence in quiet moments, a soft reassurance when he was frustrated, a subtle comfort in his darker moments. He began to sense surface emotions off the people he came into contact with, the depths of which grew more and more as time passed.  
  
He was a bit slow on the uptake, but it soon became clear just what Rachel had left him.  
  
Her empathy.  
  
He had no idea how it had happened, but it was there. And as he became more accustomed, more in tune with the people around him, he began to change. It wasn’t as if he’d been a hateful person beforehand- a little rough around the edges, a little caustic- ultimately a good man, but this was different. Far different.  
  
He knew how to argue, how to both intimidate and reassure whenever necessary. Blunder and unneeded candor were things of the past. Respect toward his companions, his surroundings, was always a must. He was softer, more open-minded…let more of his heart show, the gentleness of it all.  
  
It was like having that soothing haven that was his healing power with him 24/7. It made him feel alive, it made him feel…needed.  
  
Like he could make a difference.  
  
He had seen so much during his travels- incredible things, horrible things, evil things, and even miraculous things. Nothing had ever come close to the intensity of holding a dying Rachel in his arms, feeling that heart beating against his hand suddenly stop forever. But everyday his eyes began to open, and he began to wonder, began to see.  
  
He found his purpose, his drive, his motivation- anything to stop such devastation from being repeated. The world shouldn’t have to bear the tragedies he had seen, shouldn’t have to feel even a tenth of the pain he had felt (still felt to this day).  
  
Rachel became his purpose. He would give anything not to let history repeat itself.  
  
And he knew exactly what Rachel had done for him. What needed to be done for him, to him, by him.  
  
What the future needed to be.  
  
“Mr. Ambassador.”  
  
Joshua was shaken out of his personal reflections by the familiar address, looking up with bleary eyes to the sympathetic face of his personal aide.  
  
“Mr. Ambassador, the President has asked for an audience, regarding plans for a discussion regarding the most recent annexes placed on the Gaza Strip.”  
  
Joshua winced, and rose to his feet with a groan.  
  
Saving the world was tiring work.  
  
++  
  
_“The lover and the healer will come together, and from them will come our hope- the heart of the people. He will be the man his father and grandfather were always hoping to be. He will be the one we need-”_  
  
Angela Petrelli scoffed and waved a hand at him, effectively cutting off his words. “No more prophecies, Charles. I know what I need to know. Nothing else matters at this point.”  
  
Charles Deveaux sighed to himself as he watched the women disappear through the roof access doorway, turning his own attention back to the city skyline. He murmured to himself, quietly finishing the prophecy,  
  
“Fate will put into motion an innocent love, Gemini not of the body, but of the soul. The bond of two must sacrifice one for the world- for the world, two becomes one and one becomes two. Together not in body, but in soul, for the future to take place.”  
  


_“She will be his final push…it is destiny…love will be the answer to everything…”_  
  



	50. Epilogue VII: La Famiglia

_Italy (2060)  
_  
Carlo Rossi was in a bright mood as he wandered his way through his small restaurant, wiping down tables and greeting the half-dozen or so patrons enjoying their coffee or lunches. It didn’t escape notice when he began whistling or when his step became so carefree, but his mood was buoyant and it seemed nothing could possibly bring it down.   
  
The sound of the bells ringing at the entrance caught his attention and as he watched the approaching company, his heart hammered in his chest and his happiness spiked even higher- even after all these years.   
  
His wife, his beautiful Rosalie, caught his gaze and gave him a coy smile, green eyes twinkling and hips swaying as she made her way languorously toward the kitchen, basket from the market tucked against one arm. With one last look around at the pacified customers, he followed after.   
  
Once the swinging doors had closed behind him, he immediately pinned her against the nearest wall, kissing her deeply without any regards to the produce hitting the floor. She responded with just as much enthusiasm, burying one hand in his thick hair, the other seeking warm flesh as it slid beneath his shirt.   
  
He groaned, nipping at her chin as her head fell back, granting him better access to drop a trail of soft kisses down her throat. “I think you probably bruised my tomatoes,” she commented breathlessly.   
  
He chuckled, eliciting a shiver as he hit a sensitive spot just below her collarbone. “I’ll see what I can do to remedy the situation.”  
  
“I don’t know. You probably did in the oranges and lettuce as well.”  
  
“We’ll buy more,” he punctuated each word with a kiss, hurriedly unbuttoning her blouse. As his caresses met more intimate flesh, she gasped, nails digging into the bare muscle of his shoulders. He grunted at both the pain and pleasure of the feeling, seeking her mouth once more for a kiss. “Sweetheart…”  
  
“Hello? Is anyone back there?”  
  
The use of English was more than enough to catch Carlo off-guard and he stopped his ministrations immediately. He shared a puzzled look with his wife and they separated, Rosalie working to refasten her blouse and smooth down her hair.   
  
Carlo stepped out into the dining room, curious to greet his English-speaking stranger. “ _Buon giorno_ , can I help…” he trailed off as he got his first good look at the two young men waiting for him.   
  
They were both young: good-looking, robust boys. One was clearly of foreigner heritage- blue eyes, blonde-brown hair; the other was of Italian descent, darkly featured.   
  
What drew his attention, however, was that he would know these boys anywhere.   
  
Rosalie followed not long after in his wake, stopping just as abruptly as he had to take in the newcomers. She reacted much more quickly, however, clapping her hands with a sudden welcoming smile.   
  
“Boys, welcome. Carlo and I have been expecting you. The _padre_ told us you would be coming by. I trust he’s been treating you well?”  
  
Both boys looked startled and then thoughtful. Her husband stared just as blankly, until realization began to set in. She was treating the young men as visiting students; it wasn’t unusual for foreign students either studying abroad or doing missionary work to be put up at the village church, nor was it strange to see the local priest sending said students off to local businesses to lend a hand here and there as a form of room and board.   
  
The blue-eyed boy was the first to speak, taking off his cap to give her a respectful nod. “Si, Signora Rossi. We’ve been treated quite well.”  
  
“I’m glad to hear it. Follow me, then. Let’s fix you some lunch. I’ve never met a growing boy who wasn’t hungry, and I’m sure we can find you something in the kitchen.”  
  
Behind closed doors, Peter kissed his wife’s hand. “You, _il mio amore_ , are absolutely brilliant.”  
  
She gave him a cheeky smile and a wink. “All these years, and you’re just know figuring that out?”  
  
Claire kept her word and went about the business of making a few sandwiches to feed the men around her. If there’s anything she knew, it was a Rossi appetite.   
  
He leaned against a counter, facing the two boys seating themselves on nearby stools. “I’m pretty sure I got this right…Noah,” pointing toward a striking likeness to Vivien, “And Parker,” who could be nothing short of his Rachel’s son.  
  
Noah answered for them both, “Yes, sir.”  
  
Peter smiled. “Please. Don’t call me sir. Peter will do, or something else if you prefer. I’m sure it’s strange to call someone who barely looks a decade older than you your grandfather.”  
  
Parker, who seemed to Peter to be the quiet type, spoke for the first time, “How do they say it here?”  
  
“ _Nonno_.” He cocked a thumb in his wife’s direction, “And _nonna_.”  
  
“Nonno,” Parker nodded with affirmation, giving his grandfather a shy smile.   
  
Peter returned the gesture with a gentle grin. “Yes. Not that I’m not pleased to see you both, especially since you’ve both grown into such strong young men, but to what do we owe this visit?”  
  
Noah’s countenance clouded. “It has to do with the family’s more…special aspects.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“One of us lost control. It’s a power like yours.”  
  
“Who is it?”  
  
Parker frowned, raising his head. “It’s me, nonno.”  
  
Peter straightened, brow furrowing with worry. “What happened?”  
  
Parker looked away, mouth thinning into a tight line clearly reflecting his misery. Peter’s heart tightened. His namesake couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen. He stepped around the island separating them and wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulder, allowing his grandson to lean back against him.   
  
Claire brought a stack of sandwiches to set atop the island, brushing a kiss against Parker’s forehead as she passed.   
  
“Let’s have something to eat first, sweetie,” she told him gently, “And then you and your grandfather have a lot to talk about.”  
  
++

They had known from day one, from the day Joshua was born, there would be something special about their family- something beyond what they knew as their own strange brand of normal. Nico Rossi was the catalyst that began it all.   
  
He had been an incredible nexus of power, and Peter, though more restrained most of his life, even managed to surpass his father. It seemed only natural that such unadulterated force would trickle down into the next generation.   
  
For their children to be born as “evolved humans” was an inevitable given, but the strange effects rendered upon the family was not. Something he and Claire came to notice early on was the strength belonging to their familial bonds.   
  
Emotional connection ran deeply in each of the children, not just to each other but to their parents as well. Peter and Claire were seemingly immune, but it was impossible not to see, Joshua and Rachel being the most extreme.   
  
His own theory had been a weakly feasible one, but it was all they had to work with, that perhaps the situation had to do with the empathy inherited so strongly in him. Whatever had caused it, whatever it was, remained a history even as the bonds continued to grow and evolve.   
  
The children had attempted to explain it to him more than once: with the exception of his daughters (an empath and telepath alike), it wasn’t a case of his sons and their sisters knowing each thought and feeling from the others, but rather an awareness, a kind of synchronicity. They were each other’s touchstones- their rocks, their strength, their comfort and their reassurances, all of them, from firstborn to last, felt some trace of that strange, internal intimacy.   
  
Even as adults, reaching out to make their own futures, there was need to constantly know each other’s location, to know that if any of them had need of another, they would be there within a heartbeat. They were so wrapped up in each other, so tightly entwined, and Peter prayed for years…to have the ability to save them the heartache of ever losing one of their six before times of being old and gray.   
  
In the end, he’d failed in that aspect. But before…before, the hardest thing he had ever had to do was to take the first step to severing his children’s bonds.   
  
They had always known immortality would come with a price. Over the years, they had perfected the art of hiding in plain sight, but even that could not last long. They had always known there would come the day they would have to disappear.   
  
The children knew from day one what the plan would entail. The fake car accident, the need to make it clear to the world that Peter and Claire Petrelli no longer existed. The need for anything and everything tying them to their old lives to be cut off.   
  
The children’s bonds to he and his wife were different from those to each other, more reflecting of the mother/father, daughter/son relationships than anything else. But Peter should have known there could be something potentially harmful in so much feeling, so much intensity and awareness in children. One thing he hadn’t foreseen was emotional dependency.

He hadn’t really known what would happen until the dreams began. There had been mutual tears and desperate embraces when they began, and he knew their grief would be general to a certain degree, despite knowing he and Claire were still alive. But the reality of never seeing them again hit all six of them hard, emotionally and mentally.   
  
Their grief was a harsh, palpable thing, and his beloved children mourned so deeply, so intensely. He felt through his dreams the pain and the rage, the depression and the fear. Joshua, Rachel and Nathaniel were more subtle in their reactions but still as deeply affected; Isabel and Nicholas was beside themselves but even they would recover, but David…their little David was devastated.   
  
David had always been the one Peter was able to see and feel the best, and through Morpheus’s eyes, he watched his youngest son begin to filter the feelings inside into beautiful words of art, ones he wrote and created in his dreams. He watched his son’s talent grow and his heart swelled, both with pride and nostalgia. He was a bright one, their David Michael, their dream-walker. With the ability to touch and manipulate the dreamscape, but never holding the possibility of abusing his gift.   
  
And once, in that state between reality and dreams, came the soft mental whisper.   
  
_I love you, Dad._   
  
It wasn’t Joshua’s gentle spirit, not Nathan’s powerful presence. It wasn’t Rachel’s playful waves or Isabel’s warm, mothering aura or Nicholas’ creative energies. It was that uniqueness that could only belong to his youngest.   
  
Now for David to have been the one to send Noah and Parker to him- a reflection of the clever boy grown man.   
  
Noah and Parker…  
  
It should never be mistaken that Peter Petrelli had loved all his children wholly and deeply, but it had also been inevitable that Joshua and Rachel would hold a great deal of his attention. He remembered Charles’s prophecy, word for word as David had given it to him all those years ago. He knew how it applied and he knew he had been helpless to try and prevent it.   
  
The first time it happened Peter had chalked it up to coincidence and good luck. Joshua had been nine, Rachel five, and Joshua had been showing off, climbing higher and higher into the branches of an old pine tree in the park. They had been making a family day of it and Peter had naturally been close enough to respond quickly when he heard Rachel’s emotional panic.

He got to the scene and in that split instant, there had been nothing wrong.   
  
Rachel had made no noise beside a distressed whimper, what he would later guess had been an effort not to startle her brother, but the moment Peter looked from his daughter to his son; Joshua lost his grip and hurtled toward the ground. The distance from the ground would have been enough to break the boy’s neck and Peter acted quickly, using telekinesis to slowly ease his son onto the grass.   
  
The second time had been what caught his and Claire attention. Joshua was fifteen, Rachel eleven, when it came to the infamous near-impact. The story his children would tell later on what that a group of bullies had been terrorizing both Rachel and Nate and Rachel had naturally called to her big brother when he passed by, riding his bicycle on the sidewalk across the street.   
  
Joshua had instantly responded and worked fast, especially considering most of the bullies were two or three years his junior, not to mention that Joshua was a strong boy. He had put a smile on Rachel’s distressed face with a grin and a tap to the chin, scooped up Nate to settle him on his handlebars. Joshua seated himself and planned to head home, Rachel to follow on her skates. Just as Josh was pulling away, one of the disgruntled bullies had thrown a basketball hard at one of the bike’s wheels.   
  
Joshua had been immediately thrown off balance- Nate landed in the grass with only a few bumps and bruises but Josh hadn’t been so lucky. The bike swerved and hit the ground, skidding across the road. Josh’s feet tangled up and his head hit the asphalt hard. None of it put him in the right condition to see the car flying down the street, teenagers without regard to residential area speed limits.   
  
Rachel had reacted instantly before the car had fully turned the corner and saved her brother for the second time.   
  
Even then, Peter had wanted so desperately to remain skeptical, but it was Joshua’s senior year that really cemented everything. Joshua was a new eighteen, ready to celebrate the end of mid-terms by attending a friend’s party.   
  
Rachel had broken up with her first boyfriend the day before and just as he had been getting ready to go, she was the very picture of adolescent devastation when she begged her brother to stay with her that night. Knowing his daughter wasn’t as affected by the break-up as she made it seem, Peter had been tempted to scold her for interrupting Joshua’s chance to spend time with his friends, but he’d decided in the end that if Rachel wanted time that desperately with her brother, he couldn’t fault her the opportunity.   
  
The next morning, the news was full of reports regarding a car crash, the victims being two high school seniors killed by impact with a drunk driver. Both boys had been Joshua’s friends, and his intended ride the night before.   
  
After that, Peter had tried so desperately to turn a blind eye to the goings-on. He worked so hard to keep it from happening, encouraging Joshua to go away for school, Rachel to stay close to home. Joshua had studied pre-med at Oxford, Rachel pre-law at Berkley. Afterward, Joshua came home to intern in Seattle and Rachel finished school in New York.   
  
For a while, Peter felt like he could breathe again.   
  
Joshua was twenty-nine, Rachel twenty-five, when Rachel had gone into an early labor unexpectedly. Joshua had been in Seattle when she phoned him, desperate to have him there with her. He had caught a red-eye and been with her for the last few hours leading up to the birth of Peter Joshua “Parker” Abbott.   
  
Back in Seattle, there had been a building collapse downtown. Joshua had been on-call before Rachel asked for him and most likely would have been on the scene…where half-a-dozen paramedics, survivors and firefighters had been crushed under a falling beam.   
  
After that, Peter could only resign himself, and pray that next time, the fates would not choose to make it his daughter’s last. In the end, he couldn’t stop it, but with his little girl’s passing, he watched through his dreams his eldest’s eyes grow haunted but determined as he stepped up and began his work.   
  
There were some things you could never fully escape.   
  
“Nonno?”  
  
The young voice broke through Peter’s reflections and he looked up to see his eldest grandson standing in the entrance to the storage room, looking hesitant but curious. “Noah? Something wrong, son?”  
  
Noah frowned. “May I talk to you?”  
  
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”  
  
“…you don’t know what my ability is, do you…?”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t. Do you want to tell me?”  
  
Noah nodded, running a hand fitfully through his hair. “I heal. Not others, but myself. Just like you and Grandma.”  
  
Things began to click in Peter’s mind, but he kept his thoughts quiet, letting the boy speak for himself. “I see.”  
  
“I…” Noah sighed, “I’m twenty-two, nonno. I haven’t grown an inch since I was fifteen. I can’t even grow a full beard.”  
  
Peter studied his grandson and realized for the first time that the young man before him stood at barely 5’6’’. It was a fair height, but out of all of Peter’s children, only Isabel had been of small stature- Joshua, Noah’s father, stood at a good 6’1’’. And the golden-brown facial hair the boy sported wasn’t the rough stubble he would have expected, rather the fine scruff of an adolescent boy.   
  
Immortality came with a price.   
  
“I’m so sorry, Noah.” His heart sank. This was the one ability he prayed his family would never inherit. It seemed not all of his prayers came true anymore.   
  
“Don’t apologize, nonno. I just wanted to ask you something. Why didn’t you and nonna take the serum?”  
  
Peter sighed, giving Noah a tender smile. “We talked about it. We were planning to, actually, not long after your Uncle Nate was born. But that was the same year we started to realize your dad was growing into his ability, and we got to thinking.”  
  
He remembered that time. Joshua was six going on seven when Nathan was born; Peter had taken his young son with him on a short hike in the woods surrounding the cabin the family was vacationing in that summer. They had come across a rabbit caught in an old hunting trap and though Peter had managed to free the creature, its mangled foot didn’t give it much chance of survival out on its own.   
  
While his father had been debating whether it was right or not to put the poor creature out of its misery, Joshua had scooped up the rabbit and tenderly cupped its foot. A moment later, it was jumping out of his arms, leaping away into the trees. Peter had to consciously remember to close his open mouth.   
  
“We didn’t want this for ourselves, but it’s situations like your cousin’s,” he pointed toward the kitchen where Claire and Parker were sure to be found, “That make our decision for us. Until the day comes that our children, their children, and their children’s children, are secure enough to feel safe and understanding of the power their blood gives them, we’ll be here.”  
  
He reached out, placed a firm hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “Whether it is to take the serum or live a few dozen lifetimes, it’s your choice, Noah. It doesn’t matter what destiny waits for you at the end, it’s how you get there that matters. It’s about choices, son, it’s always about choices.”  
  
A few hours later, having settled Noah and Parker in a guest room at their home, Peter came across his wife standing before an open window, staring up at the stars. He wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, nuzzling against her neck. Claire settled her hands over his with a soft sigh.   
  
“Will we?”  
  
He ran an idle hand through her dyed brown hair. “Will we what, sweetheart?”  
  
“Ever use the serum?”  
  
“I suppose,” he tilted her chin up, meeting green eyes, “But for now, I want a few lifetimes with you.”  
  
He dipped his head down to brush his lips against his and she smiled into the kiss, looping her arms around his neck in anticipation of a more ardent response. “That, my love, is exactly what I had in mind.”


End file.
